Life Is What Happens
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: while you're making other plans. Long-promised sequel to TGIF & OHIM; people from the past, gunshots, secrets-just an average day for NCIS' M.E. Drama/Minor casefic. T mostly for language; slight AU/Ducky/OFC Final chapter posted; apologies for the delay.
1. Chapter 1: Life

**Life Is What Happens To You While You're Busy Making Other Plans**

**Summary:** Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. Thank you, John Lennon. That's it in a nutshell. The further adventures (romantic and otherwise) of Dr. Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge. People from the distant past, people from the recent past, secrets, shootings and Mrs. Mallard making everyone crazy. Just another average day.

**Note:** Mildly AU.

**Betas and cheerleaders:** Thank you **Kes Cross** for your research assistance! As always, I owe **Tallis224** for many nights of "help!" and "this isn't working!" even to the point of starting over from scratch. The brownies are in the mail.

**Genre:** Drama/Minor casefic

**Pairing:** Ducky/OFC

**Rating/Warnings:** T (mostly for language and references to adult situations; you've seen worse on prime time TV and heard worse on HBO, trust me)

**Spoilers:** none

**Time frame:** Summer 2007

**Disclaimer:** All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Life**

"Oh! Strawberries! And on sale!"

"They have seeds. You said they hurt your—teeth." Victoria hates the word "dentures"—let alone the gentler (and barely accurate) "partial." Her mouth turned down in a sad frown that was almost comic. I sighed, caving; boy, could she play me. "Oh… all right, I'll get them. But you check with Donald before you eat them."

Quicksilver moods. She smiled and waved dismissively. "Oh, I'm his mother. He's not in charge of me!"

I rolled my eyes as I followed her through the produce department. Sounds like she's been watching MTV or something. Great. Corrupting a major? (Minor was _way_ off.) "How about bananas? Full of vitamins, potassium—"

She clasped her hands together. "Could we have banana splits for dessert? I just love banana splits!"

"You betcha."

She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow and kept pace with the cart. "When I was younger," she said in a loud whisper, "some young ladies would do naughty things with bananas."

_Please, god. Strike me dead. Any god. I'm not picky._

She continued to chatter as we collected dinner ingredients, oddball items on the list and things for dessert. It looked like she was laying in for a siege—or planning to live on ice cream sundaes for a month.

"Wheatena, Wheatena…"

Victoria made a rude noise. "Nasty stuff."

"Donald put it on the list, so I'm buying it," I said firmly. _If I can find it._

"I won't eat it," she said mulishly. "You can't make me."

I gave her a long look, biting my tongue. Literally. "Take it up with Donald," I finally said and focused on the display of boxes. _It's gotta be here. Somewhere._

As we wandered the aisles, my peripheral vision had caught items being added to the cart. If they were too absurd (last week she added a jar of pickled beets; none of us like them, but the color was "so striking" she had to grab them) I'd slip them to the checkout clerk. But for now—

Ha. There it was, stuck between Cream of Wheat and the house brand of strawberries-n-cream oatmeal.

"Okay, I've got the—" I put the box in the cart. "Cereal?" I was talking to empty air. "Victoria?" (Sound of crickets chirping.) "Victoria?" I said a little more loudly. I kept the panic from my voice—barely. _I've lost his mom. Great. This is going to put a crimp in our relationship._ "Victoria?" I called over and over, hustling down the cereal aisle and rounding the corner to coffee/tea/cocoa/canned milk. Still no Victoria. She moves fast when you least expect it.

This was cementing my thoughts to not be a mother, for darn sure.

"Vic—" I let out a deep breath, managing not to snap, 'Oh, there you are!' like she was an errant toddler. (Okay, not so far off.)

"Oh, Cassandra! This nice young lady was showing me her garden!"

The refrigerated display of I-forgot-a-birthday/whaddya-mean-it's-February-14-again/wife-or-mother-in-law-or-girlfriend-is-pissed-off-in-general flowers. Well, they _had_ been a garden at some point. "That's nice." I gave her companion a 'thank you' eyebrow waggle.

The young woman shifted her basket from one arm to the other and looked up from under her sun hat. "Don't forget your lemon curd." She handed over the squat jar and combed a loose hank of hair behind her ear.

"Lemon curd?" Not that I didn't like the stuff, but it wasn't on the list.

"For our banana splits." I must have looked as appalled as I felt because Victoria explained in great, _great_ detail. "Strawberry ice cream, pistachio ice cream, chocolate ice cream, hot fudge sauce, pineapple, lemon curd, caramel syrup, mint chocolate chips, nuts and whipped cream. And bananas, of course." Of course.

"No cherries on top?" I managed. Ye gods, maybe _she_ was pregnant. It had never occurred to me that she was planning to put all the crap she'd added to the cart onto _one_ sundae.

"Oh! I forgot the cherries!" She began to toddle off. Quickly.

"'scuse me. Thank you!" I said to the young woman (who looked as horrified by the recipe as I had felt). I caught up with Victoria two lanes away. "Don't do that!" I begged her.

"Do what? Don't you like cherries?"

"I love—no, no, don't wander off like that, you scared me."

She actually looked penitent. "I'm sorry, Cassandra. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"That's okay—"

"May we go to the nursery? I need to pick up flowers for the garden."

I shook my head and tried not to laugh. "Yeah. Sure. Let's get the ice cream and stuff home first, though, okay?" I repeated my mantra as we finished our shopping. _I love you, Ducky. I love you, Ducky. I love you, Ducky._

Okay, it's not like I 'baby-sit' that often. Sometimes if Ducky is called in on a Saturday or Sunday and can't get someone at the last minute (he's taken his mother to work a couple of times; it hasn't worked out very well) I'll keep her under my wing at the store or if we're meeting up at his place, I'll take Victoria out while I do an errand or two. And maybe I'll pop over during the week, take her out for lunch or a movie or—hmm; I guess I am starting to hang out with her more and more often. But most of the time, it's not too bad. And, hey, not to be morbid, but the lady's about to hit the big 100 next year. I can put forth a little effort for a while. I would really hate to live with "gosh, I wish I'd spent more time with her" in a couple of years.

"I think this is yours?" I looked behind me. The young woman who had rescued Victoria was behind us in the checkout line and was setting down a can of sardines with our order.

"No…" I said hesitantly. Ugh. Sardines.

She tucked a hank of her dark hair behind an ear. "Well, they're not _mine_. I figured…" She glanced at Victoria and another chunk of hair got settled behind the other ear. (She probably just got a new haircut. I do that myself until I get used to the new length.)

Oh, please, not a missing ingredient for the banana splits. "Victoria, is this yours?"

"Oh! Yes! They're just wonderful—" _Swear to god, if she says they're for the sundaes, I'm going to eat out._ "—on buttered toast."

That I can live with. "I'll fix that with your tea."

"Thank you, Cassandra, dear," she beamed. She surprised me by suddenly kissing my cheek. "You're such a good girl. Donald is very lucky."

I actually blushed. "Thanks. So am I." I swiped my card and punched in my PIN.

"I wish I could go dancing," she said wistfully as the clerk loaded the bags into the cart. Another conversational left turn. Par for the course. "I loved to dance. Donald is a very good dancer."

"Tell me," I muttered as I fought to make the cart roll straight. Our first date had been to a Halloween party where he had proven himself to be one hell of a dancer.

She gave me a sly smile. "Why don't you call Matthew and we'll all go out dancing this evening?"

Groan. She has the biggest crush on 'Matthew'—Agent Gibbs—and it just won't shake off. "We'll see."

Like most toddlers, she took "we'll see" as a "yes." "I shall iron my good dancing dress."

And burn down the house in the process. "We'll look at that after tea, hmm?"

Apparently the idea of going dancing chased all thoughts of shopping for garden supplies out of her head. She kept up a discussion about dances from her past (with great detail on the dresses through the decades) while I loaded groceries in the van. Our stand-in babysitter was just driving past in a sharp-looking silver sedan and gave us a tentative little wave. "What a nice little girl. She's here on a vacation."

_Why the hell would someone camp out in Reston?_ I answered my own question. _Because the hotel rates in DC are as bad as New York. Duh._ But it explained the glittering decal on the back window from Pegasus Rentals ("Horsepower with wings!"). "Let's get this stuff home." I helped Victoria into the passenger seat, fastened her belt and got us on our way.

There was a message from Ducky saying he'd be home around dinnertime; his voice had the tone of someone who had had a long, hard day so I was doubly glad that I had taken Friday off on impulse. He deserved a little spoiling. The new (relatively new) day nurse, Miss Keithley, had taken advantage of our field trip to get caught up on some aspects of Victoria's personal care that were impossible to do with her 'helping.'

A day or two into starting this assignment she had even taken over the chore of doing the family laundry. I'm not territorial about Ducky's shirts; more power to her. I hope she won't quit—but I'm not taking bets. She's the fifth day nurse I've met since Ducky and I started dating.

While Victoria ate lunch (she often shared with the dogs; I learned early on to overfill her plate) I started putzing around the kitchen.

"What are you making for lunch?"

"You're _eating_ lunch. I'm _starting_ dinner."

"Oh." She looked at her plate of half-finished food. "Oh! Yes. Chicken salad."

"Yep."

"And you put cut up grapes in it for me. You're such a good girl."

Good girl. LOL, laugh out loud. Oh, well, it beats the mother of one ex. After a month or two of psychological and emotional sabotage and warfare, she got down and dirty and spiked my drink with ipecac syrup. I raced to the ER… and sonny-boy _defended_ her. (Last I heard, wannabe Mrs. Bates and her son were very happy in a retirement villa in Florida.) I gave Victoria a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm happy to fix special things for you."

"I wonder if he'll call today…" She nibbled at dessert, bits of pear in black cherry Jell-O.

"He? He who?"

"Charles."

"Charles?" I cocked my head and wracked my brain. Gibbs is Matthew, Jimmy Palmer is Leonard…

"My husband," she said patiently. Her face grew pensive. "I haven't heard from him in so long…"

Uh… he's been dead over thirty years. And they were divorced a good twenty before. Good reason for the long silence. "Um… maybe there's no phone where he is," I suggested in mild panic.

"You may be right." She pushed away from the table and fumbled for her cane. "They haven't telephones in heaven," she said, making her way cautiously toward the doorway. _Awww_… I felt all warm and smushy inside. "So I'm sure he hasn't one in hell." Head high, she sailed from the room. I stared after her, too stunned to say anything, and stood there until I smelled the butter and oil in the skillet start to overheat.

After settling her charge for a nap before afternoon tea, Miss Keithley slipped into the kitchen for her lunch. After crossing paths with her over the past few weeks, there is one phrase that fits Neoma Keithley to a T: creature of habit.

Monday through Friday: arrive at 0700, leave at 1800. (She _will_ stay late if asked, but you can tell she's reprogramming her brain when she agrees.)

If Ducky hasn't left something for Victoria for lunch (or if I'm not there) and it falls on the shoulders of the predictable Miss Keithley, it's a small green salad, fruit cocktail, cottage cheese and half a sandwich (turkey or chicken). Always. Without fail.

Nap (for Victoria) from 1230 to 1430. Whether she wants one or not.

Tea (tea and cookies, nothing more fun or fanciful) at 1500. Precisely. (Store bought cookies, no less. Not even the bakery goodies I leave lying around. If I'm at the house during teatime, _I_ fix tea. I like fancies, too.)

A walk at 0930; a walk at 1630. Half hour exactly. No dogs allowed.

And _her_ lunch? _If It's Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium_. (Close.) Monday and Wednesday: PBJ (_only_ smooth peanut butter, _only_ strawberry jam) on white bread. Tuesday and Thursday: ham and cheese on wheat (two slices of honey roasted ham, one slice of cheddar cheese—_only_ ham (_only_ honey roasted), _only_ cheddar). Friday—woohoo, variation on the theme, tuna salad on sourdough. Livin' wild. MWF, six baby carrots; TTH, six chunks of celery. Every day, twelve pretzel sticks. Three chocolate chip cookies (only Chips Ahoy). Her big indulgence: Coke in a glass with three (never fewer, never more) ice cubes. (I was there the day she discovered the ice cube trays hadn't been refilled. Two cubes remained. She actually trembled a little and opted for plain water.) Creature of habit? Hell, she puts the flourishes on anal-retentive OCD.

She sat quietly eating her lunch (phew; the ice cube trays were full) slowly, methodically, from 1230 to 1250. Ten more minutes of silence. I nibbled as I cooked, eating over the sink (why dirty more dishes?). (It probably drives her nuts.)

"How long have you known the Mallards?

I almost choked on my turkey sandwich. Holy crap. Independent conversation. Words being used not in response to a direct query or specifically in regard to her patient. It threw me for a loop. "Almost a year." _Technically_ we met about 15 years ago, but the important stuff is just this last year.

"She's very sweet."

"Yes, she is." Most of the time. To me, anyway. I've heard stories, though…

"Dr. Mallard is a very good son."

He's her _only_ son. Kind of makes the nomination list pretty short. But, yeah, he is. "He's a good guy, period."

"How did you meet?"

"My bookstore is right down the road from the Navy Yard." I smiled benignly. No need to share the fugly part.

"You're getting married soon?"

I actually laughed. "No, we're happy as we are. Where did you—" A sudden, furious blush flared on her cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the table. Oh, Lordy. "Let me guess. Someone told you there's a baby in the offing?" Her blush intensified. "That's one of Victoria's favorite fantasies. Pay her no mind."

She looked faintly relieved. I don't know if she was concerned for her job security (no fears on that score) or had designs on Ducky (fat chance, sweetheart; you've read too many old Harlequins).

My turn. "So. How did you end up in the nursing profession?"

She frowned. "Family tradition. Of sorts. Excuse me. I need to check on the laundry." She put her lunchbox (an honest-to-god kid's plastic lunchbox—with pictures of the second _Star_ _Wars_ movie, _The Empire Strikes Back_—on the lid) at the far end of the counter and hurried toward the basement. She still had five minutes of her lunch break to go; I'd never seen her duck out before 1300.

I turned back to the meat I was browning. _You can dish it out but you can't take it._ Okay… maybe I suspected her of harboring a _tendre_ for Ducky. I smiled… just a hair maliciously. Just a hair.

/ / /

Afternoon tea now a memory (in addition to chocolate crisps, a custard-filled éclair and a couple of cream cheese and cucumber sandwich triangles, Victoria ate every sardine and a ton of buttered toast; shudder), I was concentrating on the home stretch of dinner prep. Every burner was in use and the kitchen was, well, a mess. But it smelled good. I was carrying a pot of boiling water to the sink so it took me a couple of rings to catch the phone. "Mallard residence," I chirped, hoping it was the master of the manor.

I'm still not sure, but I thought I heard in infinitesimal gasp and then the clattering click of a receiver being hung up. Enh; I was probably reading more drama into it than necessary.

"Was that Donald?" Back from their 1630 stroll, Victoria walked slowly into the kitchen, lightly swatting away Miss Keithley's hand as she tried to guide her in. (She is _not_ going gently into the night.)

"I don't think so." I stirred at the two pots of lasagna sauce. (Yes, two. Ducky loves mushrooms; his mother loathes them. I'm a dutiful un-daughter-in-law and will happily make separate things for her. Or him.) "Even if he were interrupted, he'd've said, 'I'll call right back.' He wouldn't have just hung up."

"They hung up on you?" She looked shocked.

"Mm-hmm."

"They hang up on me, too."

_Probably give up when you say, 'What? What?' over and over._ "Maybe they only want to talk to Donald. No women allowed."

She snorted faintly. "How rude."

How rude. Indeed.

/ / /

"Long day?"

"Very," Ducky said firmly. We were cuddled together on the couch, ignoring the end of the movie flickering on the TV across the way. "Murder-suicide."

"'If I can't have you, nobody will?'" I interpreted.

"Exactly. He left a long, rambling note that went on for pages, the kind of psychotic, disjointed discourse along the lines of the Unibomber—or Charles Manson."

"Nice, stable relationship."

The end credits from the Friday night movie (_Star Trek: Nemesis_, possibly the most forgettable of the franchise) finished scrolling and we got a screen full of pretty, perky newscasters. Even with the sound down low, you could tell what was going on. President Bush, giving a speech somewhere, his facial expression showing he was either concerned or constipated. Evacuation in Texas due to potential flooding (a seasonal favorite). Riot in—hmm, somewhere with an Arabic language. No—Arabic market in England. Cameron Carson leaving rehab for the at least the fifteenth time (since 2000) (he makes Robert Downey, Jr. look like Carrie Nation). "God got me through this, to a good place… I'll never falter again. I have a new—a new need, a new resolve—" He did look more put-together than he had the other bazillion times he'd left rehab. "I want to thank my fans for standing by me, my wonderful family—especially my incredible wife, Alyce—" The clip moved to a shot of a baseball game just as he planted a kiss on the frozen cheek of the platinum blonde beside him. "What was I saying? Nice, stable relationship? What a jerk."

"Michelle Hartman?" The screen was back to the 9 o'clock news team.

"No, not her. Carson. He should have a wing named for him at Betty Ford. He's been arrested more times than there were Friday the 13th sequels—and each time he gets off scot-free or with a slap on the wrist or community service or rehab. You pull that routine, or I or—anyone else—we'd be locked up for years. But CC? Because his films rake in bucks like Schwarzenegger and Harrison Ford combined, he gets a pass. Good actor, and I _hear_ he's a nice guy—but I think he's kind of a jerk," I repeated.

"No argument from my quarter." His words were barely audible. He stared at me for a long moment until I was almost unnerved. "Have I told you how much I love you?" His voice was so very gentle.

"Yeah, when you saw what was for dinner," I cracked. (I can't help it. Every so often the fact that we've been together for so long and it seems so normal, so stable, just overwhelms me. Color me neurotic.) "But you can tell me again."

"I love you." He kissed me on the forehead and snuggled me closer. "And that _was_ a marvelous dinner."

"Even dessert?" I teased.

He shuddered. "Even dessert. She adds something new every year."

"Be glad it wasn't sardines."

He made a face. "Don't even joke. So. How was she today?" He steeled himself, brow furrowed.

"Pretty good. I lost her at the market, but she didn't get far. We didn't make it to the nursery—she mentioned wanting plants and such."

"We'll go this Sunday. At least it's not the other kind of nursery. Has she stopped badgering you about grandchildren?"

"Has she stopped buggin' you?"

"No."

"So why should I get off? Don't—say—a—word," I said, catching the wicked grin and twinkle in his eye.

"I? I didn't say a thing."

"You were thinkin' it. Loudly."

"Good. Then I don't have to spell out my plans—" He began nibbling my neck.

"Dear god, I'm in love with a vampire," I giggled. (Hey. It tickled.)

He chuckled evilly—which tickled even more. "Of course, the mere idea that we might present her with a grandchild makes her turn a blind eye to us spending the night at each other's abode."

"Yeah, instead of getting tongue-clicking and finger-wagging we get understanding smiles and, 'Oh, I'll just go read in bed a while.'" I decided not to tell him about our conversation in the produce department—or the fact that she was telling Nurse Keithley (and god knows who else) that I'm pregnant.

"Amusing to have one's parent lead one to a life of debauchery."

"Debauchery…?" I gave him my best depraved chuckle. "I like that."

He leaned over to kiss me—only to be interrupted by the telephone. He sighed in frustration. "It might be work," he said apologetically.

I gave a martyred sigh as he reached past me to grab the phone… and then tickled him has he came in firing range.

Consequently his, "Mallard residence" had a bit of a chuckle in it. "Hello?" He gave me a bemused look. "Is anyone—huh!"

"What's up?" I asked, curious. He replaced the receiver.

"How odd. I couldn't hear anyone on the line, then I said, 'is anyone there'—and I head someone cry out, 'Oh!' and hang up."

"Weird. I had something like that when I was fixing dinner. And your mother said she's had hang ups, too."

"She probably couldn't hear them and they hung up in frustration."

Whoops. I forgot that he reads minds. "Maybe it's kids playing phony phone call. Badly." We hadn't even been treated to, 'Is your refrigerator running? Go catch it!'

"It would be nice if they at least said, 'sorry, wrong number,'" he grumbled.

"Uh-uh. I saw that movie."

"I promise—" He reached over and clicked off the end table lamp. "You won't end up like Barbara Stanwyck." He stood up and tugged my hand.

I knew he was heading for an early bedtime—but not sleeping. "Good." We strolled out of the parlor, arm around the waist of each other. "That better not be some other girlfriend, making sure the coast is clear."

"Never."

Oh, he is _so_ nice to snuggle up to…

/ / /

"Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you?" I juggled the phone on my shoulder, counted out change for a customer, gave a thumbs-up to the UPSy-daisy driver when she pointed toward the back storeroom and chugged a swig of iced cappuccino. Multi-tasking at its best.

"Sandy?"

The voice was familiar, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure. "Yes…?" I started hesitantly—then gasped. "Ev?"

"Yeah…?" There was hesitation in her voice, too.

I waved to Valerie and pointed toward the register. "Hang on a sec." I put the call on hold and scurried toward the break room, scrawling my name on the UPS delivery screen in mid-flight. "Evvie, Evvie, Evvie! How are you, how are you, oh my god, how _are_ you?" I laugh-gasped out while I grabbed the receiver.

She laughed, such a familiar sound. "Not bad. I—saw you at the Expo."

"You did?" I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice. "Why didn't you—"

"Well… I saw you were with Dr. Mallard—and, well, I was… with… someone… too."

"Oh." Light slowly dawned. "Oh. You were _with_ someone with someone."

"Yeah," she laughed lightly. "I didn't want to interrupt you and, well—"

"You didn't want us interrupting you, either."

"Kinda."

"So you've managed to get with someone who's in the business?"

"Not exactly," she hedged. "You never met Lily, did you?"

I wracked my brain. "Not that I remember."

"I was pretty sure we broke up before I started at the store. We went together most of the time I was at Waverly, split up, went our separate ways… She moved out of state, she's been in Utah most of this time—"

"Utah?" Not what you'd call the most gay-friendly state.

"She was studying, advanced degree. She's a genealogist."

"Well, that's the place to learn it," I was forced to admit.

"So my forte was always history and biography, so—um—" I could picture her shifting from foot to foot, chewing her bottom lip and hugging herself, masses of wavy hair bouncing like lazy Slinkies. "—would you hate me forever if I became your competition?" she got out in a rush. She sounded like she was a ten-year-old asking permission for a sleepover.

"You're opening a bookstore?"

"We, uh, already did. Sort of."

I burst out laughing. "I won't hate you forever! You know darn well bookstores thrive on friendly competition."

"Except for _You've Got Mail_."

"Yeah, well, I don't see Tom Hanks hanging around here. You know we don't do a lot of trade in bio, I will happily point people your way. Where are you?"

"Wisconsin NW, right near Hippy Gypsy Tearoom."

I made a face. "Near that art supply store with the fishwife owner?" Great products; lousy staff.

"Not near it, in it. They couldn't find a buyer for the business, so they sold off the stock and put the empty up for sale. A lot of lookers, no takers; they said they got a bad vibe from the place when they walked in."

"What'd she do, die there?"

"Nah, she and her hubby retired to Arizona."

"Lucky Arizona," I muttered. The woman had been a witch in the unkind sense of the word.

"But you _did_ get a creepy feeling walking through the door. So Lily called a couple of her Wiccan friends—"

A gay, Wiccan genealogist who had studied in the heart of Mormon-land. Pat Robertson would have had a field day.

"—they did a cleansing and the place is totally different, now."

There was a single, sharp knock at the door. I looked up just as it swung open; Marcy, our newest (and, at 17, youngest) member of the staff gave me a telling look. I didn't need to ask. "Ev, can I put you on hold for a sec? I'm, uh, kind of sitting—"

"You?" Evvie giggled. "_You_, babysitting?"

"Not exactly." I scurried from the room, wireless receiver in hand. "Sometimes Ducky gets called in on a Saturday morning and can't find—"

"Ohhhh," she drew out. "Ducky has a… kid? Grandkid?"

"No! It's his—mother."

"You're babysitting his _mother_?"

"Sort of. Hang on." I hit the hold button and slipped the receiver in the pocket of my apron.

"—gone, I can't find it!" Mrs. Mallard had cornered a customer and looked quite distressed. (So did the customer.)

"Victoria, what's wrong?" I slipped her hand through my elbow and gently pulled her away, mouthing 'sorry' toward the young man who nodded understandingly in response. "What can't you find?"

"Cassandra?" She looked at me in confusion.

"Yes. What have you lost? Can I help you find it?"

"I wanted to eat lunch but I can't find the kitchen. Where is my kitchen?" She looked ready to cry.

"It's at _home_. You came to the _store_ with me this morning. Du—Donald had to go to work, remember?"

"Where is Donald?" She switched to a look of irritation in a nanosecond. "That silly boy is never around when I need him!"

"He's at _work_," I repeated patiently. She has good days and bad. This was kind of a 50-50 up and down day. Hey, at her age—I should do so well. "He called just a little while ago, he's going to take us to lunch and then I was going to drive you home. Mrs. Devon is coming over from the agency, she'll be there about two-thirty."

"Nurse Devon?"

"That's right."

Her eye narrowed. "I don't like her. She steals my chocolates."

"I promise. On the way home, we'll take care of that. I'll figure out something so she can't steal your chocolates any more."

She gave me a smile that would melt the heart of the coldest person. "You're such a good girl, Cassandra." She patted my cheek. "I just do wish you and Donald would hurry up and give me a grandchild."

I've given up fighting that one battle. "Maybe one of these days soon," I fibbed.

"Good." She frowned, concentrating. "We're going to lunch," she said carefully.

"Yep."

"I need to… I need to…" Her face suddenly cleared. "I need to sort the gardening books!"

I laughed in response. "That would be very helpful." I led her back to that section. "And, look. Geoff just arrived. I'm sure he can help you—you can sort, and he'll shelve them for you." When I had insisted that yes, it would be okay to leave Victoria with us a few times when Ducky had difficulty getting someone to stay with her on short notice, I was pleasantly surprised to discover Geoff helping Mrs. Mallard at every turn. It turns out his grandmother lives with them and suffers severely from Alzheimer's. (She makes Victoria look like a pretender to the throne.) Geoff is the one who has the most patience with his grandmother, the one she responds best to—even though she thinks he's her husband's shipmate and we're in the middle of WW II. He had stepped into the same role with Victoria without a bat of an eyelash.

"Mrs. Mallard!" He gave her an easy grin and a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, you rogue!" she giggled.

"I'm just so glad to see you here today. It's always more fun sorting books with you."

They walked off, arm in arm, Victoria talking a mile a minute about the wrestling match she had watched the other night. Geoff looked utterly fascinated. I'm buying him a solid chocolate Oscar.

Calm restored, I pulled the receiver from my pocket and took a turn around the store. "Sorry about that."

"Wha' happened?"

"Well, Mrs. Mallard… gets confused sometimes. Just had to sort things out." I collected go-backs as I cruised—books customers had picked up, carried with them, changed their minds about purchasing and dropped on a convenient shelf, rather like they did at the market, I'm sure. At least books aren't perishable. "So—tell me more. You open, yet?"

"Soon. We've been doing internet sales, but I really missed the customer interaction. Maybe we could all… get together for lunch?" she suggested hesitantly.

"That would be great." I didn't have to fake my enthusiasm.

"Maybe… today? Gypsy has a really nice lunch menu…"

I hedged. "We were going out to lunch—Ducky, his mom and I, I mean."

"They'd certainly be welcome."

"Well… I'll suggest it, but Victoria…" I lowered my voice, even though she was nowhere near and doesn't exactly have ears like a bat. "Victoria can sometimes be a handful."

"Oh…" I could hear the disappointment.

"Monday?"

"Let me check with Lily. I was hoping you'd get to meet Charlie, but she'll be in summer school all week."

"Charlie?"

"Charlie. Charlotte. Lily's sister. Half-sister. And adopted daughter. Lily came back home to take care of her dad last year; he got everything taken care of before he died. He didn't want his late wife's family fighting for custody. They're, um, well… Lily had a good reason for moving out when she did, put it that way."

"Gotcha. So Charlotte's mother—?"

"Died. Tell you later."

Something ugly, apparently. "Hmm. Well, why don't we do lunch twice? Just us grownups and _then_ add Charlotte and Victoria into the mix. Maybe… a picnic next Sunday?"

She went 'hmmmm' for a moment. "That sounds good. Call you tomorrow to set it up?"

"Haven't changed my numbers."

"Fabbo."

It took another couple of days to get together with Ev and Lily. Monday Ducky was in court all day. Tuesday I was at an all-day estate sale in Pennsylvania. Wednesday Lily was teaching _Who Am I? How to Research Your Family Tree_ at the local community center. (Lots of bored retirees take day classes.) Thursday Ev and I were both at a library sale in Fairfax County. It was almost like old times. She found some books for me, I found some for her, and we made firm plans for all four of us to meet that Friday.

Friday was sunny and hot and more humid than the prior four days rolled together. Blech. By noon I was drenched in sweat, my clothes were plastered to my body and my hair looked like a fright wig. Obviously the a/c unit needed a tune-up—or I was hitting menopause (finally).

"And it's not even the dog days of summer," Ducky commented, holding my chair.

"_You_ look darn good."

"I've been in Autopsy all day. Of necessity, it's quite cool there."

"Need an assistant?"

His eyes had a wicked gleam. "Gladly."

We were early. Way early. We took a table at the far edge of the outside patio, where Ev and Lily couldn't miss us when they arrived. Our table was a small redwood picnic table, nice and sturdy and perfect for four people. (If you've never been to Hippy Gypsy, you should go. Soon. They're big on the whole 'reuse, renew, recycle' concept. Every table, every chair, every plate and utensil was purchased used. So our table was an old picnic table, my chair was powder blue metal with a sort of Art Deco flair, Ducky's was curved wrought iron (very Southwestern style), one of the remaining chairs a Duncan Phyfe dining chair and the fourth an old-fashioned straight-back country kitchen chair. The china was an even crazier mix.)

We nibbled on raw veggies as we waited, giving each other a rundown of the week. (While they push healthy food and vegetarian items, Gypsy is not above junk food and sweets. But they're better for you than most and sooooo good. I heartily recommend their carrot cake.) We usually did a better job of getting together; some weeks were just ugly in terms of quality together time. This had been one of them, so a lot of catch-up was needed between us.

I yelped as someone threw arms around my neck in a hug, and narrowly avoided choking to death on a carrot stick.

"I'm so sorry we're late!" Evelyn had snuck up behind me and was the guilty party. "A pox on plumbers!"

"Don't say that," her companion scolded. "I, for one, want a working restroom."

"Too bad ours is turn of the century. And it finally turned on us."

"You remember Ducky, of course—"

"Evelyn." Ever the gentleman, Ducky had immediately arisen and held out a hand.

Ev took it in both of hers and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Of course. You look great."

"The true sign of old age," he said mock-mournfully. "When your first greeting isn't, 'great to see you' or 'how have you been' but, 'you look great'—you're old."

"Well, you do," Ev argued. "Sandy's taking good care of you."

"It's mutual," I said, smiling at him. He gave me a tiny wink.

"Well, I knew you'd be good together, even back—last year," she stumbled, probably remembering the more personal parts of what brought us all together.

"And you were right." Almost a year. Wow. Shiver.

"Oh, Sandy, Ducky—this is Lily."

"My pleasure." "Hi." "Finally, we meet!"

"I know, this has been a crazy week, hasn't it?" she said to me. Ducky played host, holding the chair for her and then for Evelyn. Chivalry is not dead so long as he has anything to say about it.

"Par for the course. Wait until she starts doing back to back estate sales and book sales."

Lily made an expressive frown. "Bad enough already."

"We can keep each other company," Ducky laughed, patting her hand.

"Sold."

We had barely ordered before Lily finally asked the inevitable. "How did you get the nickname Ducky?"

Ev clapped a hand to her forehead. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize I'd been so causal in my introductions. Lily McAllister, Cassandra Talmadge, Dr. Donald Mallard."

"Mallard, duck, Donald Duck—Ducky," he tracked.

"Your name is familiar…" She peered at him more intently, frowning slightly.

"I'm sure I've mentioned him," Evelyn said.

"Plus, if you've been following the Packard murder case, he's been testifying lately—" I added.

"That must be it. I'm a Court TV junkie."

Oh, well. Proved she isn't _too_ perfect.

We spent lunch chattering amiably back and forth. Lily is a serious young woman but with a sly wit, and seemed to be a good match for Evvie. (I got a secret chuckle out of the fact that both she and Evelyn are two of the prettiest, most girly-girl feminine women I've ever met; I wanted to march them in front of the cretins who think that every lesbian is a flannel shirt-Birkenstock sandals-overalls-wearing dyke with uber-short hair and an allergy to pastels. Lily has long, _long_ dark hair, huge brown eyes and if she needs a second job she could put half the Victoria's Secret models out of work. Good thing she's nice, or I could hate her guts.) She and Ducky really hit it off; he has a love of history and an interest in genealogy, so they were thick as thieves over their plates. Ev and I quickly ended up talking trade; I gladly hauled out my day runner and gave her the numbers for wholesalers I regularly dealt with, putting asterisks by the ones who specialized in nonfiction. We passed industry chit-chat back and forth: a new s-f store in Connecticut named after Heinlein's _Tomorrow, the Stars_ had opened; Ev dismissed them as pretentious preppies. The rumor that Bookman's, a chain of used bookstores we had discovered on a trip out West, was going to expand to California and New Mexico was just that—a rumor. The Bookie Joint, one of the oldest used bookstores in the tri-state area, was closing down—and I had a personal invite to buy the stock before anyone else called dibs. Ev didn't ask; her eyes said it all. I knew Pippa would have no problem with me bringing Ev along for the ride.

"You're as bad as my mother!"

At Ducky's laugh, I surfaced from my tête-à-tête with Evelyn. "Hunh?"

"I was just asking if he had any children," Lily explained, faintly puzzled.

I laughed as well. "Yeah, Victoria is still nagging him about grandchildren. _You_ be _quiet_," I admonished Evelyn, who pressed her lips together, eyebrows raised and eyes glittering with badly suppressed laughter.

"Did I say anything? _Anything_?"

"No, but I could hear you anyway."

After well-deserved dessert (muggy in D.C. deserves some sort of gold star), we headed back to inspect the new shop. The bay window on the left read _T. Evelyn Campbell, Vintage Books_; the right, _Lily McAllister, Genealogical Research_, all in delicate gold and black script. Very pretty. The plumber was still hard at work (Ev hadn't been far off; that bathroom was appointed at least 70 years ago) and occasional unintelligible mutters floated forth.

If you're a bookseller and don't get even a tiny rush when you walk into someone else's bookstore—baby, you're in the wrong business. Go work for the government, talk to pissed off customers in a call center or herd toddlers in daycare. You don't belong in the book business. Me? I walked through the front door and fell in love.

I could see Ev's handiwork in the shelves. Beautiful, dark stained wood, nice and heavy, the shelves spanned the walls and cut 90-degree angles to create nooks and cubbies. Over half of the room was full of books and ephemera on history, broken down first by reading level (adult and teen; grade school and below in their own section) and then by era or topic. Another third or more was biography. She had a respectable children's' area, both history and biography ("The grade school teachers were already my best customers online, they've been nagging me for a storefront for ages!") and she had a section of 'miscellaneous fiction' and 'miscellaneous non-fiction' for both adults and children ("Amazing the stuff that ends up in your box at a sale."). Lily had the large back office to herself, someplace discreet for her genealogy clients.

I leaned close to one shelf and inhaled, that wonderful smell of old paper, leather and ink filling my nose. What a feeling of euphoria. Bliss.

Ducky was happily perusing a scruffy, battered book; I caught sight of the title: _From Teleharmonium to Waterphone: Unique and Unusual Musical Instruments._ My sweetie is nothing if not eclectic.

"You are open for business, yes?" he asked worriedly.

"Of a fashion," Ev said. "But for you—no charge."

"Nonsense," he said briskly. "You're a business, not a charity."

Ev looked like she was going to argue, but the set of his jaw stopped her. She checked the first page. "Fifty-three-oh-two including tax. Skip the oh-two." (She's done that since her first day at Papyrus. Calculate tax in her head, I mean. Kinda scary. But impressive.)

"A steal." He happily whipped out his wallet and plunked down the requisite bills.

Ev dug around in a desk drawer—her checkout desk is an old, _old_ teacher's desk, fully of nooks, crannies and drawers; very fitting—and pulled out a pen. "Autograph, please?" She pushed one of the singles back toward Ducky.

"Surely I'm not your first customer?"

"In the storefront? Yep. And don't call me Shirley."

"I picked a bad week to quit smoking," I shot back. Ducky looked between us, baffled. Apparently not an _Airplane!_ fan. "Ask Tony."

"Oooh, a calligraphy pen." He made a couple of practice scrawls on a piece of paper, then neatly wrote _Donald Mallard_ on the right side of Washington's portrait and _To your continued success!_ on the left.

"I even have a frame," Ev said smugly. "Okay, hold it like that—" She arranged the book in his hands and posed him near her vintage cash register.

"What—oh, no, no, _no_," he protested when he saw she was going to take his picture.

"Oh, yes, yes, _yes_," she overrode. "Smile," she ordered.

He sighed and obliged. He has such a sweet smile. I peered at the digital screen. "I want a print."

"Sure." She plugged the camera into the computer—an interesting counterpoint to her register, which is the size of a third grader and twice as heavy—and quickly printed out two copies of D. Mallard, M.D., M.E.

She wasn't lying. She pulled a frame from one of the drawers—a lovely old picture frame from god knows when ("It was in a box I got at a blind bid auction last January.") and pried open the back. A dab of glue stick on the dollar bill and the picture, press to the piece of faded black backboard and— "Voila."

"Nice," I admired.

"The frame is as old as I am."

"Oh, hush."

"_I_ should look so good—" Ev and Lily started together. They burst into laughter.

"Already talking in chorus," Ducky teased. "Sure sign—"

"Of a good match," I finished.

"So what does finishing each other's sentences mean?" Ev asked with an overly-innocent look.

"Beyond hope," I said.

"Doomed to be together forever," Ducky said sadly.

"_Doomed_?" three female voices chorused. Lily even crossed her arms and cocked her head.

"That didn't come out quite right," he admitted with a frown.

I slipped an arm about his waist. "More like, 'who else would have us, darling?'" I said, trying for a Noel Coward feel.

"If I say yes, does that save my neck?"

"Probably."

"Yes," he said fervently.

"Safe." I gave him a peck on the cheek. "Let's get you back to work before you end up your own customer."

"Sunday, eleven o'clock, Marilyn Walsh Park—right?" Ev confirmed as we walked to the door.

"Barring any murder and mayhem," Ducky said, disgruntled. He'd lost a number of weekend days of late.

"You can always join us later," I suggested. Small consolation. "But your mom is looking forward to this too much for me to cry off."

"Besides—you're bringing lunch," Lily laughed.

"_You're_ bringing dessert," I shot back. "Can she cook?" I stage-whispered to Ev.

"Better than I can," she 'whispered' back.

"That ain't sayin' much."

At the door, Lily gave Ev a glare. "Listen, miss I-can't-be-bothered-to-do-dishes—"

"I was a neat freak until I started hanging out with Charlie—"

"That's it, blame a nine year old kid—"

We all exchanged farewell hugs, Ev and Lily still "squabbling" as we left. "Well, they seem a good match," Ducky pronounced. I nodded. "Feel better?"

I gave him a sharp look. "Pardon?"

He steered me around the light pole I was about to plow into. "Sandy, I know you pretty well." He laughed quietly. "_Very_ well. Even though you had nothing to do with Evelyn falling in love with you and what happened last year—"

"Please, I was the _cause_ of what happened last year."

"We'll debate that later. As I was saying—even though you had _nothing_ to do with Evelyn falling in love with you, you still felt guilty about the situation."

"Yeah…" I kicked a small rock out of our path and into the street.

"You were worried about her."

"Yeah…" A plastic bottle cap joined the rock.

"You wanted to make sure she'd be happy—"

"Yeah…" Mashed flower from one of the sidewalk trees. Airborne. Hat trick.

"—especially since _you_ were."

I stopped and looked up at him, arms wrapped around myself despite the sticky humidity. "Finally. _Finally_ happy." I shook my head. "Where were you thirty years ago?"

"California," he said promptly.

"Nuts. No wonder we didn't meet."

"But we eventually did. That's what's important."

"_Doomed_ to be together forever."

He winced faintly. "I truly meant—"

I laughed. "You're gonna get that on a t-shirt for your birthday."

"I don't wear t-shirts," he said quickly.

"Not even for me?" I gave him a soulful look and batted my eyelashes.

"Well… maybe in private."

"You're on."

* * *

-1-


	2. Chapter 2: Is

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Is**

* * *

Marilyn Walsh Park is a nice little community park. A couple of playgrounds, tennis court, baseball field, soccer field, grass. Rec center. You know the type. Lots of trees, so we wouldn't be in the sun. Off-leash dog park (one for big dogs, one for little; we were staying in the leashed area, just to be safe) and, coming soon, a small water park. Nice place. And open expanses, so if Victoria decided to abandon her director's chair and totter off to watch the soccer game, we'd have a pretty clear field of vision.

But she had no interest in the soccer game. She was immediately, totally, completely enraptured with Charlotte—who is not your average sixth-grader. For one thing, she looks about seven. Maybe six. Teeny, tiny little thing. She's only two grades ahead of where she should be, but could compete with high school kids academically and emotionally. She'd just get lost in the herd—literally.

I figured Victoria took to her because there was someone close to her size to talk to. But, no. You guessed it, right?

"Donald! Is this _your_ little girl?" she cried in delight when she first caught sight of little Charlotte.

While the adults all groaned softly, winced or flinched, Charlie took the question and ran with it. "No, ma'am," she said politely. "My daddy died last year."

Some things penetrate even the thickest fog. Victoria's eyes grew wide and tear-filled. "Oh, you dear, dear child. I am so sorry."

"But Lily adopted me so now she's my sister _and_ my mom. So now I have Mommy and I have Mommy Evelyn, so I'm fine. It was very distressing, but it _is_ for the best because Daddy was _so_ dreadfully ill."

Did I mention the kid likes to read? Modern stuff like _Harry Potter_. Classics like _Little Women, Jane Eyre_ and so forth. Writers who wrote (or write) with an enjoyment of the language. Ev had warned me that she tends toward the slightly dramatic and occasionally antiquated turn of phrase. But she uses 'em correctly. I held my breath, waiting for Victoria to pick up on the whole "two mommies" notion, but either she didn't notice or it didn't matter.

"But I haven't any grandparents." Charlie's eyes darkened. "Not congenial ones, anyways." She smiled and tucked her hand into Victoria's. "So if you want to fancy I'm your granddaughter, I don't mind."

"Oh, may I?" Before anyone could say anything, she scooched over and patted the sliver of seat next to her. "Come sit with me, dear."

"_**No**__!"_

They both looked up, startled by the chorus of objection from the four of us. "Mother, that chair isn't made for two people," Ducky said patiently. "You'll both fall, probably be injured."

"I'll sit on the blanket next to your chair," Charlie said decisively. "I don't like emergency rooms," she whispered to her newly adopted grandmother. "I know Uncle Ducky is a doctor, and I'm quite fond of _him_ already, but I don't much care for doctors. They treat me like a baby," she said with great scorn. I bit my lip and burrowed into the picnic basket.

"Oh, my dear. I know precisely what you mean," Victoria said with a grimace. Yeah, she was having a pretty good day, comprehension-wise. As I've said, some days are better than others. This was looking to be pretty good so far.

Ducky had transported his mother and the food; I had brought the dogs. They were all tethered to long leashes staked in the grass, but had no inclination to see how far the leashes went. They weren't going farther than ten feet from Victoria (or ten feet from the food). And Charlie was just besotted with them.

While we munched our way through cold roasted chicken, fruit, cheese, feather-light biscuits (thank you, Ducky!) and all sorts of great side salads (thank you, Wegmans (okay, I got behind on the cooking; sue me)), we kept up a lively conversation on a wide range of topics. (It's nice to have friends who are as all-over-the-map as my honey is.) Charlie was polite enough to talk animatedly with all of us—but her object of adoring interest was Victoria Mallard.

Victoria told her all sorts of stories about her mother's Corgis, which led to all sorts of stories about her childhood, and (poor guy) all sorts of stories about Ducky's childhood. (At least she didn't relate the more embarrassing ones.) Charlie reciprocated with some colorful stories of her own (the kid has the memory of an elephant and paid way too close attention at family gatherings). Both Victoria and Charlie had to be coaxed (then badgered) into eating. They were too busy hanging onto each other's tales.

"I think we'd better set up play dates," Lily sighed. But it was a bemused, happy kind of sigh.

Lunch was capped off by an excellent citrus cake (yep, Lily can definitely cook better than Evvie). When Charlie came close to a snit fit over the fact that her backpack was in Lily's car (and, thus, since they had come in Ev's car, her notebook—meaning she couldn't start on the book she now planned to write, namely Victoria's biography), Ducky found a slightly battered lab analysis notebook in the corner of the Morgan's boot that would serve.

"See? It's very organized. You can make your notes on this side and then directly across there are three columns—you can make mention of topics for the index—and index is _very_ helpful in a biography—or if you want to add a photograph or drawing—" He smiled, just a shade wickedly. "My mother has hundreds and hundreds of photographs. And—oh! I have a little tape recorder at home. You can interview Mother and then write out your notes later." He leaned over and murmured, "Sometimes she talks too quickly for people to write."

"And I don't know shorthand," Charlie said sadly. "Perhaps next year. But thank you, Uncle Ducky. It would be exceedingly helpful if I could borrow your tape recorder. I promise to return it in the condition in which it was lent."

I could see he was struggling not to laugh. "My dear," he said gravely, "it is yours to keep. All I ask for is a copy of what you end up writing."

"Certainly." She took the notebook and a pen I fished out of my purse and went back to 'grandma's' side, safely parked under the trees about thirty feet across from us.

Evvie was shaking her head. "I can definitely see your gene pool in that kid."

"Yeah, she's a lot like my dad was." Lily frowned. "She's a lot like my mother was, too, which is odd, since Mom had been dead for years before Dad even met Hannah."

"How did Charlie's mom die?" The moment the words were out I could have cut out my tongue. "Sorry. Never mind. Not my business."

"No, it's okay—" Lily glanced over, but Charlie was busy taking a blue streak with Victoria, making notes and playing with the Corgis. "Hannah… well, she had a lot of good qualities," she said, quietly but earnestly.

It's always bad when someone starts with a buffer. "But…?"

"Her family belongs to this really, _really_ right wing evangelical church. She was the most liberal of them all—she was okay with me living at home until Charlie was born. Then her family convinced her that I'd 'turn' Charlie gay—"

Ducky made a quiet snort of derision and I followed it up with a good old-fashioned roll of the eyes.

"—so she persuaded my father that as I was an adult, long out of college, I should be living on my own, so forth and so on."

"Never mind that every time she had tried to move out before, Hannah talked her out of it," Ev said with a quirked eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, she liked how I did dishes," Lily joked feebly. "So. Five years—no, six. Six years ago. I was living in Utah, going to BYU. Dad called to tell me Hannah—" She glanced up; Charlie hadn't budged from Victoria's side. "Hannah died," she said quietly. "She had been having an affair." (So much for the upstanding church lady.) "The man's wife found out about it—"

Talk about déjà vu. I took a long, slow drink of my Coke.

"She, ah, came home on a surprise leave—"

_David Sutton. And Mrs. David Sutton. And yours truly, waltzing through the door to David's office. __**Surprise!**_

"Found them—"

"In_ flagrante delicto_?" Ducky murmured.

"Yep. Shot both of them, shot herself—only it's easier to do that on TV, I guess, because she ended up giving herself permanent brain damage—"

Ducky's head jerked up. "Dear Lord."

"Yeah, pretty gruesome."

"No, no—" He held up a hand to stop comments that weren't coming. "I _remember_ that case."

_Oh, crap_. 'Surprise leave.'

"The husband survived," he said slowly, staring at the picnic blanket. "Barely. The young woman, Corporal—" He shook his head. "Last name started with an L, I believe—"

"Laver," Lily said quietly.

"Yes. Laver. She was semi-conscious when we arrived; she kept saying, 'I missed. I missed.' That's all she said, over and over. Nobody ever found out what she meant—that she missed her husband, herself—or did she mean to miss Hannah, only frighten her, and felt guilty for actually having killed her—" He shook his head again, more slowly this time. "We'll never know. Within days, she was incapable of even saying those words. She was in a permanent vegetative state last I heard."

"That's the one." Lily's voice was still soft. "I wanted to come home, but Dad told me to stay in college, he and Charlie were fine. Then a year and a half ago, he had a cough. When it hung on for months, he finally went to the doctor's. Too late. Stage 4." She managed a fleeting smile of thanks for Ev, who had reached over and was lightly stroking her back in silent support. "But it's like Charlie said—it was for the best. Toward the end…" She shook her head and looked off.

A little over twenty-five years ago I stood by my best friend from high school through her mother's two-year battle with cancer. Four rounds of chemo and the bugger kept coming back. The last months there wasn't enough morphine in the world to take away the pain and she was begging anyone who would listen to just please, _please_ kill her. I don't care who thinks of it as a sin—I wish I could have done it for her. Long, lingering, painful death? No thanks. I'll pass on that one.

"I had graduated a couple of years before and was fiddling around in Utah, mostly because I was too lazy to move back across country. But as soon as Dad called, I moved home. Charlie and I had a long-distance relationship before Hannah—you know—" She coughed slightly. "But afterward, I came home for every vacation I could, and Dad and Charlie visited me in Utah. Even then, her—Hannah's—side of the family was making noises that Dad wasn't providing a 'proper' environment. Which was total bull. They even tried to get custody taken away from him—"

My jaw fell open and I instinctively turned to look at Ducky. His eyes had that hooded look that I don't know very well because I don't see it that often. Very, very ticked off, but very, very contained.

"The judge basically told them to piss up a rope."

I couldn't help it; I busted out laughing. So did Ducky, so I didn't feel too bad. Good tension reliever. "Good for him," Ducky said roundly. "Or her," he amended quickly when he caught the repressed smile on Lily's face.

"Yeah, she said something like, 'There are close to ten thousand kids in foster care in the tri-state area, alone. If you're concerned with the welfare of children you can start there. But I am not going to take a child out of a loving, caring environment and put her into that system, nor am I going to put her in a custody situation where she does not wish to go and I do not feel is in her best interest.'" (Something like? I think she had the closing remarks framed and on the living room wall.) "Dad had given Hannah's parents plenty of access to Charlie for birthdays, holidays, Sunday dinner, so on—but he was smart enough to never leave her overnight."

"They probably would have kidnapped her," Ducky said. Sage man.

"That was his theory. In private, anywho. So—they got wind of Dad being ill and started a really big push to get Charlie. Dad already had his wishes spelled out in black and white—he wanted me to have full guardianship and he was the one who suggested adoption. As luck would have it, we drew the same judge Dad went before again." (I had a sudden flash from the old series _Judging Amy_. Bet I'm not far off.) "The judge didn't say it, but I have a feeling she was thinking, 'Oh, god, not _you_ again.' But, again, she was scrupulously fair. She had a couple of private meetings with Charlie, got to know her. And on the day she was giving her final ruling—well, Charlie asked to read a statement to the court."

Even Ducky looked startled. "How old was she?"

"Just turned eight. Apparently she worked all week on this. It came off like a cross between _Law and Order_ and Grimm's fairy tales. She started off, 'I refuse to live in a home of small-minded, hypocritical bigots.' I don't know if the Kemmelbachers even heard anything after that, but she was on a roll. 'If it were possible, they would put me in a locked turret and my sister in the dungeon and keep me away from the person I love as much as my daddy and the person who loves me just as much in return. Fain would I—' yes, she said 'fain'" she repeated when Ducky looked stunned and I snorted soda up my nose and started to choke. "'Fain would I go into the abyss of foster care before living on their charity.'" She spread her hands. "She was reading before preschool. Her favorite website is one that gives you an archaic, oddball word of the day. She gets daily updates from something like six dictionary sites to her e-mail—yes, my nine year old kid has an e-mail account, the Kemmelbachers would have me flayed alive—"

Ducky shot Ev a look. "You're correct. It's in the gene pool." That got a laugh from all of us. "Charlotte is a very lucky young lady to have you—both of you—in her life. And I thank you for adopting me into the family." He looked over at his mother, who was busy teaching Charlie how to get the dogs to perform their meager stable of tricks—sit up, shake hands, roll over (only Tyson had mastered that last trick), all for bits of roasted chicken. "And my mother."

"Thank _you_ for joining us. I'm not prejudiced against positive male role models."

"I thought you have a couple of older brothers?" I asked.

"I said _positive_ role models. And I love the idea that Charlie has a surrogate grandmother. There aren't any left on Dad's side of the family or even my mom's. They were both late in life babies," she explained.

"You're welcome to adopt my mother as well," Ducky said with an easy grin. "She'd love the idea of more grandchildren and this is as close as she'll probably get." It wasn't far off; I'm _just_ enough younger than Ducky and Ev and Lily are _just_ enough younger than I that it would be plausible. Barely.

"We do make an interesting family unit," Lily said.

"Odd ducks all around," Ev quipped, then immediately winced. "I mean—"

"No arguments from me," laughed the man who owns the name. "No arguments at all."

/ / /

Charlie was all for coming home with us and spending the night. (Better still, spending the week.) And Victoria thought it was a marvy idea, too. Only the fact that Charlie had summer school every day put the kibosh on that. (Lily was paying a fortune for the privilege; no way was the kid missing even one class.) But Ducky had no problem extending the invite for the following weekend. It's hard to say who said yes faster—Victoria, Charlie… or Lily.

"I plan to rent a rolloff and shovel out her room," she muttered in passing as they packed Ev's wagon to head home, all but dragging Charlie from the house. I grinned; only Felix Unger's mother probably missed out on that comment.

It wasn't until we were packing it in for the night that Ducky thought of possible ramifications. "Oh, no. What if Mother ends up staying with you at the store?"

I shrugged. "I'll put 'em both to work. Charlie helped out while they were setting up Evelyn's store. She knows her way around books. Hmm…" I put my fingertip to my lips and tapped, thinking.

"What?"

"Wonder if I could hire her away from the competition…"

"Depending upon how hard it is for Lily to make inroads on her room, she might take you up on that."

"She's a good kid."

"She's a _reader_. Of course you like her."

"True enough." She wasn't a video zombie, sitting in front of a game console, zapping aliens and falling into a semi-conscious state of ADD. She wasn't a 21st Century Valley Girl, whining to hang out at the mall and badgering her mother for a higher allowance (or to just outright buy her the new, hip outfits). She struggled with math (I consoled her that I still couldn't convert complex decimals into fractions and dividing either of them without a calculator made me want to cry), she loved history and English and her personal motto was a Santayana quote ("Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it."). She could play a mean game of backgammon; she despised the Bratz dolls but loved Barbie (mostly because she inherited Lily's collection, including outfits handcrafted by Lily's mother and several dolls handed down from her as well). And Ducky had promised to teach her how to play chess, and idea that made her hug herself with glee. What's not to like? "If the universe could guarantee I'd have a kid like that…"

"You might sign up for the job?" He stopped in mid-motion, suspenders halfway to the hanger.

"Well…" I couldn't help remembering a comment of Ducky's from a few months ago, something to the effect that he'd be in his 80s when his kid was learning to drive and that would _not_ be a good thing. "Could we just clone Charlie? Skip the whole infancy and toddler thing?"

"I'll ask Abby."

I waited until he had shucked off his clothes and then patted the bed invitingly. He gave me a slow smile. "What do you have in mind?"

"Lie down and find out." I gave him what I hoped was a slinky look. He lay down, hands neatly folded on his ribcage. "No. Turn over."

He quickly obeyed. "Ah." I swung a leg over and straddled his back. "Ahhh…" he sighed as I dug into his shoulders. "That's lovely…"

Ducky teases that he's 'just an old chauvinist' and that's a lot of hooey. Okay, he holds chairs for ladies (and not-quite-ladies), he's gently appalled at the language of the young (and mine, occasionally) and there's a deference even around Officer David (who can severely kick some ass). But he's not the kind of chauvinist who reeks of male superiority and 'me Tarzan you Jane.' If anything, I think he has the feeling that women are a little above men in many ways (his mother probably had something to do with that). Whatever the source, spoiling is an equal opportunity pastime in his universe; he isn't the only one to get deep massages, foot rubs and other fun things. (And I have a lot of fun putting into practice what I've learned at the hands of the master.)

"If you're softening me up for a special favor," he mumbled lazily, "it's working."

"Good. My evil plan is succeeding. I need a getaway driver when I knock over Fort Knox next week."

"I'll gas up the Morgan."

"I'm also overthrowing the government and establishing a monarchy. I want you for my consort."

"What does your consort want to do with me?"

"Nice comeback."

"Nice consort?"

"You're the consort, silly, I'm gonna rule the country."

"Mmmmmhhhh… keep this up, you can rule the universe."

"Ming the Merciless the Second. I like it."

He carefully turned over beneath me and eyed me speculatively. "I never realized you were a closet megalomaniac."

"Sounds better than control freak."

He reached up and trailed the backs of his fingers over my cheek. "But I like it when you're in control."

"Yeah." I grinned and leaned over. "I know you do."

/ / /

Maybe I'm turning into a diehard homebody. Maybe it's that I'm ready to semi-retire. Or maybe it's because I know Ducky feels better having 'family' checking on his mother—and I really have come to love the old gal, despite her baby obsession. Whatever the reason, over the months I've spent an escalating amount of time in Reston, even when Ducky isn't home. Victoria loves to go shopping and _really_ loves to just go for a drive, even in my unladylike van. So early the next day we loaded up the van (without the dogs, even though Victoria swore they'd be good as gold) and made like Hope and Crosby on the road to Silver Spring.

The night before Ducky and I had discussed long and hard the idea of Victoria staying out with me all of Monday. A new/used bookseller (and longtime family friend) was folding up her tent and retiring after close to fifty years in business. She had let me know months ago and put me at the top of her buy-out list; I got first crack at anything within the walls before she let the word get out to the rest of the booksellers. She had fond memories of Evelyn, so it was easy to get her in on my ticket. But this was going to be a long, all-day affair. I stood on the fact that it wouldn't be much different from helping out at the store; Ducky countered that she knew my staff, Geoff wouldn't be there and the Navy Yard would be a long haul away if she need to go home abruptly and Ducky needed to step into the breech. Score tied, mild advantage to Ducky.

Round two. Miss Keithley _desperately_ wanted to deep clean and rearrange Victoria's room. While I'm on Victoria's side on most things, she's suddenly taken to squirreling away food in her room—not just packets of peanut butter crackers or a candy bar or even a couple of my cans of Slim-Fast, we're talking half a leftover sandwich or a plate of spaghetti slipped out from dinner. Barely edible for an hour; inedible and possibly deadly beyond that. Ducky and I tried to keep on top of it, but it was hard. Visions of bugs and botulism danced in his head; no arguments were offered and the score had me one up. Solidly so.

Round three, a rehash of round one. "What if she gets tired and cranky in the middle of things?"

"My place is ten minutes away, tops. We go home, she gets to meet Underfoot and she takes a nap. Evelyn knows what I need, she can sort for us both."

He was wavering. "Not the waterbed."

"God, no. Not the waterbed." _I_ have enough trouble getting out of it some days.

"Don't let her control things and run the day. You have a job to do."

"I won't," I lied. Please. Little old lady needing a nap trumps mouthy broad half her age. If I miss out on some of the stuff from The Bookie Joint—big deal.

Ducky agreed. Which was a good thing, because Ev was picking up a U-haul and meeting us at Pippa's store in the morning. Ducky's permission was just a formality, though I wasn't going to tell him that.

I just about grew up going to The Bookie Joint. It wasn't as close to our house as it is to mine, now, but it was close enough. Phillipa Kensington Ballard Pfinster-Smythe (I swear to all the gods, that's her given/married name) lived in our school district and had a son a year or two older than I was. She and Mom met in the PTA, she mentioned the problems she was having carrying on her late husband's business, Mom found out it was a bookstore and the rest was history.

I didn't know for almost twenty years that Mom had loaned Pippa money that first year. A lot of money. We're talking twenty thousand—in 1969. That's like buying five high-end cars. Dr. Smythe was, from all accounts, a darling man, more than twice his wife's age, retired from academia for several years and selling books to stay out of trouble. One day he closed the store to have lunch, settled in for a quick nap after his noontime break… and never woke up. After his death, Pippa discovered her husband was a wonderful, brilliant, loving man with one major fault: he couldn't keep his bank balances straight to save his life. Pippa's brother had helped straighten things out, but she was left with a mortgage, a car loan and a bank loan on the bookstore and the wolves at the door were licking their chops. She had quit her secretarial job in the hopes that running the business full time would keep them afloat. She loved the store, but she was sinking—fast. She never asked Mom for money. But they were mere months from losing everything when Mom took her under her wing.

A little background. We were still living in Maryland at the time (duh). My maternal grandfather was the editor of the _Clarion_; his wife, my cookie-baking little pudding of a grandmother was the most organized person on the planet. She had seven kids (nowadays, that's appalling; back then, it was common as dirt) and ran the house like a dictator or a DI. She had gone back to work when Pappi went back into the Army and didn't quit when he came come from the war. She had risen from working the line at Martin to a junior engineer; her senior engineer encouraged her to go back to school and get an engineering degree. Either he was a socially progressive closet feminist—or she scared the crap out of him. Or both. But Gamma's organizational skills moved from home to work and back again with no ripple of disturbance in the river of life.

Which brings us back to Phillipa Kensington Ballard Pfinster-Smythe and The Bookie Joint.

Gamma was a saver. She clipped coupons, saved string—and bought war bonds and savings bonds, invested in municipal bonds, and socked the money away in Christmas Club accounts for each of the seven kids. She decided 1965 was a good, round number and distributed the wealth. Several of my aunts and uncles paid off houses, student loans and cars, started businesses or just reinvested. In the time after the assassination of our President and just before Vietnam really got into the swing of things, it gave all of them a feeling of comfort and security.

My parents weren't sure what to do with the money. Their house was paid for, the car was paid for. We did one totally frivolous trip (Disneyland!) and Mom split the rest in a savings account and some small investments. And over the next couple of years, discovered she was good at it.

By the time she met Pippa, a lot of the money had been used or earmarked. (I got a college scholarship. Ray didn't. Law school ain't cheap; my parents wisely put the money into a separate account the day Ray was accepted for his undergrad studies.) She and dad discussed it at length, and they had private papers drawn up; bank and creditors paid off, Mom sat down with Pippa and looked her square in the eye. "Do you want this store to succeed?"

"Of course."

"Will you do what I tell you, no questions?"

Pippa was probably scared not to. Mom is definitely her mother's child. "Yes."

According to later reports, Mom had the same look she gets before doing top to bottom spring cleaning, a sort of zealous determination. "Follow me."

They ended up splitting the store for a while. Part of it continued to be the vintage and antiquarian books Dr. Smythe so loved (though they didn't sell very well); Mom decided to target the younger, college-age crowd (the ones with what we now call 'disposable income'). Pippa probably thought Mom was nuts, but my mother—next-to-youngest child of my orderly, methodical grandmother—had her reasons and research to back her up. Over a two-week period she took an informal survey of students at the colleges and universities and high schools, using the PTA phone tree to her advantage. (Would have been a snap with computers. Oh, well.) Other than assigned readings and textbooks, what were they reading?

Patricia Highsmith. Arthur Conan Doyle (never out of print). Ellery Queen. J.J. Marric. Robert Heinlein. J.R.R. Tolkien. Ray Bradbury. Arthur C. Clarke. Harlan Ellison. The list went on for pages. There were some mainstream authors that were hot, too—but 90% of the free time books were mysteries, science fiction and fantasy. They started boning up on Edgar and Hugo and Nebula Awards, advertised like crazy in all of the school newspapers from junior high through university… and sat back with crossed fingers and tight throats.

Response was slow. This was 1969; people were concerned with the war, the draft, the political scene (and Maryland is a close drive to DC). But word slowly spread and by the end of the second year, Pippa was able to hire an honest-to-gosh employee instead of having Mom help out evenings after working as a substitute teacher all day. When I bought Papyrus in 1977, I had a good model upon which to base my work ethic.

"And now she's retiring." I wound up my tale. Victoria had listened politely during the drive; I have no idea what did or didn't penetrate.

"I'm so glad you're driving, dear. Donald drives so fast!"

I decided not to point out that we were ripping down the road at about 7 over the limit. Nice, big, heavy cargo van feels slower than Ducky's darling Morgan. I have to check the speedometer every time he drives, it feels twice as fast as it is. I'm sure some physics major could explain it if I bothered to ask. "Thank you." I figured that was safe.

"How utterly charming!" She looked with delight at the storefront. "But—you said we were going to a bookstore."

"We are. This is where we're going to have lunch later on, the tea room next to Pippa's bookstore." Marguerite, the owner of The Tea Cozy, was upset as hell that Pippa was closing down. They got a lot of crossover traffic. But on the other hand, she was buying the west half of the property and expanding her own place, so it wasn't all bad news.

"I had a friend named Pippa when I was a girl. Her given name was Phillipa."

"So is this Pippa."

There was a neat sign in the front door, _Retiring June 23. Thank you for your patronage and friendship._ The doorway was awash with flowers and candles and stuffed toys, the kind of display you see at the scene of a tragic accident or murder. To a bookaholic, the closing of a beloved bookstore ain't that far off.

"Cassie, my dear. I _do_ apologize, I forgot to set my alarm."

"No problem, we just got here." I gave her a hug. "Aunt Pip, this is Victoria Mallard, my—ah—she's—" Hmm.

"I am Donald's mother," Victoria said cheerfully, as though that answered everything.

"I'm so pleased to meet you." Pippa smiled warmly, even though she was obviously still confused.

Before I had a chance to explain, Mrs. Mallard plainly saw that more information was needed. "Donald is my son. He and Cassandra are having a bit of fun," she whispered. "But that's quite all right because then I'll have a grandchild soon!"

I turned back to Pippa with an agonized look. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she went though every conceivable (no pun intended) response. "How lovely," she finally managed. "Why don't we go in the side door, I'll have Jenny pick things up when she gets here…" We followed her; I was wondering how long it would be after we left before my mother would call me. Oh, well. She adored Ducky; she'd probably get a laugh out of it. I hoped.

Evelyn showed up about fifteen minutes later driving a mid-sized U-haul. "Will that be enough?" Pippa asked, brow knitted.

Ev and I looked at each other and laughed. "Wait until you see her pack," she said.

"You're—you're from England!" Victoria looked at Pippa in astonishment. Sometimes the signals are slow.

"Well, I moved here quite a while ago. But, yes, I was born in Canterbury."

I thought Victoria would swoon. "Chaucer! The Knight's Tale." (I was sure she didn't mean the movie.) "I adore Chaucer!"

Aunt Pippa was clearly taken with her. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Oh! I remember—"

And they were off and running. Pippa had told me that anything in there was up for grabs; she had removed anything she wanted to keep, and whatever Ev and I didn't buy, she was offering to another bookseller as a blind lot. We were paying more, but we were getting the cream of the crop, too. So while Pippa and her new best friend chatted on the sidelines, Ev and I made like speed demons through the store.

We found it worked best if I pulled things I thought she would like and vice versa; then we could re-sort as we boxed. We hit about 95% dead on (we've had practice) and there were very few squabbles. (There were a number of old as hell cookbooks we were both eyeballing; I wanted them for Ducky, she wanted them for Lily. We negotiated through the stack; I won the last few by offering up a couple of old costuming books I'd found in trade. More than a decade of Renaissance Fairs I lived through with this woman. I know her weaknesses and I'm not above exploiting them.)

By lunchtime we'd ripped through over half of the store. I was hungry, tired, hungry, dirty, hungry, sore and hungry. (Did I mention hungry?) We cleaned up as best we could and descended upon the tearoom.

Evelyn and I ate enough to feed a small army; Victoria has a darn good appetite, too (I have no idea where she puts it), so we had quite the spread on the table. Victoria was still keeping up a steady chatter with Pippa (some of it even made sense), but she kept frowning at her lunch as she ate.

Finally Pippa gave in. "Is something wrong with your sandwich, dear?"

"There aren't any grapes," Victoria said almost mournfully.

"She loves chicken salad. But I always chop up green grapes and put them in chicken salad for her," I said quietly.

"Ah."

"Cassandra takes such good care of me." Another mood switch and she beamed at me. "I know she's going to be a wonderful mother!"

Ev was sitting next to Mrs. Mallard. Her face froze. Her eyes slid sloooooowly to the left and her face eventually followed. She stared at Victoria in silence for a solid minute. Eyes wide, they came slooooooowly back toward me across the table, face following suit. Finally she managed a strangled, "Oh?" She swallowed hard; I hoped she was reading the 'no freaking way' on my end. "I'm… sure you're right."

I looked back at the menu; no, they didn't serve alcohol. Damn.

/ / /

Ev had a couple of errands to run before heading to her store; she only had about 12 boxes and said she could unload it in a snap and meet me back at Papyrus. Ducky would probably be there already so he could take his mother home and leave us to move boxes without her, um, assistance.

He was.

I walked in the back door, Victoria on my arm. She caught sight of Geoff and went one way; I caught sight of Ducky and went the other.

He pulled up from one of the battered, comfy chairs that are scattered about the store, setting aside the book he had been reading. "How was the day?"

I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him. Hard. I kept holding on to him, face buried in the crook of his neck.

"That bad?"

I groaned softly.

"Well, I did warn you—"

I finally pulled my head back. "No, no, mostly it was fine. She was actually a big help. She wrapped up all sorts of knickknacks very tenderly, tissue paper and bubble wrap and all, packed the boxes very carefully. And she and Aunt Pippa are the best of pals, now. Ev and I got tons of great stuff, I even got the James Joyce poster—" He looked faintly puzzled. "I'll show you later."

"All right." He still looked vaguely confused.

"I found some nice cookbooks for you."

"Thank you, dearest." He shook his head a bit. "So if the day was a success, why…?" His glance covered our position, the fact that I was still clinging like a barnacle. "Not that I object, mind you…"

I gritted my teeth. "I'm pregnant." His eyes grew wide and I think he forgot how to breathe. "Oh, not for real. I'd be a _little_ more tactful in telling you, I'd hope. No. Your mother—and I _love_ your mother, Ducky—"

"Uh-oh."

"Your mother is telling all and sundry that I'm knocked up. Aunt Pip. Evelyn." I narrowed my eyes and lifted an eyebrow. "Nurse Keithley."

"Oh, _god_." Now _his_ head fell onto _my_ shoulder. "Cassandra… my darling, my beloved… I am so, so sorry…"

"When Barb was pregnant she had a t-shirt that read, _I'm not fat, I'm pregnant_. I wonder if they have one that says _I'm not pregnant, I'm fat_…?"

"You are not fat," he scolded.

"Well, I'm sure as shit not pregnant," I snapped. I ignored his rumpled brow; he really doesn't like it when ladies cuss. Or when I do, for that matter.

"I'll talk with her. Again," he sighed. I flinched slightly and rearranged my position. "What's wrong?"

I rubbed my stomach. "Way out of shape. Too much bending and stretching loading the boxes. Pulled a couple of muscles."

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" he whispered into my ear. I giggled. "Or—"

"Oh!" There was a familiar, quavering giggle. "You lovebirds! Have you told Donald?"

"Yeah, but not what you think," I muttered.

"Mother," Ducky said loudly. "Time to go home."

"With Cassandra?"

"No, Cassandra has work to do. I'm going to drive you home."

"No!" She actually stamped her foot. "No! You drive too fast, Donald! I want to drive with Cassandra!"

"Mother—"

"Victoria, do you want me to bring Charlotte over to visit tomorrow?"

"Yes—"

"Well, if you want me to do that, I have to finish my work tonight. If I don't…" I gave a huge, dramatic shrug. "Then I can't bring Charlotte over to visit. And she really wants to help you in the garden…" I am not above blackmail or extortion. Especially if it works.

"Oh." She puzzled that through for a moment. "If you work all tonight, you can bring Charlotte tomorrow?"

"Yep." Okay, Lily was going to bring her; we'll work out that detail later.

"Very well!" She smiled delightedly and headed toward the back door at a decent clip. "We shall go dancing!"

Ducky gave me a quick kiss and hurried to catch up with her. "Tonight?"

"Tonight." Glad I have unlimited long distance on my phone.

/ / / / /

In 'adopting' Charlie (and, by extension, Lily and Ev), Victoria not only got an interested and enthusiastic biographer she got a willing garden slave. There were a number of days when she felt perky enough to deal with the up and down kneeling needed to tend to the flowerbeds—but as the years passed, it was becoming more and more difficult. She was perfectly content to have the gardening service take care of the weeding, pruning and such, but she wanted to do the planting and nurturing herself. Ducky had found an ingenious contraption that made it possible to her to half sit/half kneel on the ground, but she still needed some help. Charlie perfectly fit the bill.

As a genealogist, Lily was familiar with life expectancies and knew that Victoria was edging toward the high end of the scale. She had stories and tales and anecdotes that needed to be saved. After that first Sunday, she was more than willing to pick up Charlie from school and drag her out to Reston for several hours almost every afternoon so that Charlie could take notes and ask questions. And have tea, play in the garden and be Victoria's 'pet.'

Nurse Keithley was turning into a quiet wreck.

Now, I don't like kids. Sort of. I sure didn't like them when I took my turn at teaching. And I loathe the little monsters at the mall or in restaurants. The kids who come to our parties at the store are pretty good, and I'm not too bad with them one on one (I was a spectacular babysitter for my brother's kids). Charlie, however, I adore. But it's plain as pikestaff that Miss Keithley doesn't like Charlie. On the other hand, knowing which side of her bread was buttered and by whom and that those yielding the butter knife had pulled this little girl into the family fold… she was smart enough to be civil, if slightly chill. But she didn't like Charlie.

And, boy, the feeling was mutual.

When Ducky or I got home, we'd often find Lily kicked back in Ducky's favorite chair, nose in a book, while Charlie was snuggled up against Victoria's side, animatedly interviewing her. (Two hours earlier and you'd find all three of them enjoying tea—"a charming, civilized habit" Charlie gravely informed her 'grandmother' one day.) After dinner, Ducky's lap was the perfect place for reading (_she_ read to _him_), and if I was busy in the kitchen, I frequently had a shadow with her arms around my waist and leaning against my back. Her moms, of course, are highest on the food chain and get the greater share of hugs and kisses, but the three of us are definitely on the good list.

But when Neoma Keithley comes into the room, Charlie shrinks into herself and quietly slips away.

"Well, she's not a warm, cuddly person," Ducky admitted. "But she is a good nurse."

"Better than many of them." (I actually fired one of them. She's lucky that's all that happened.) "Oh, they look so cute together."

Ducky laughed. "Yes, they do." Through the window we could see Victoria in her not-a-chair, directing the action while Charlie enthusiastically dug the holes for the latest batch of pony packs. Petunias, I think.

After a week I thought the newness would pall, but—nope. Charlie and Victoria lived in each other's pockets. The next Sunday picnic—which already showed every appearance of being a weekly event—turned into an all weekend affair, as threatened. Friday night I picked Charlie up at Ev and Lily's store. She spent the night, insisting on a sleeping bag on the floor of Victoria's room. (_We_ spent the night—Lily pooh-poohed the idea of me going home to Maryland.) Saturday she and Victoria worked on the biography, went hunting for treasures in the attic (Victoria "scampering" up the attic stairs according to the latest weekend nurse, a sweet old thing maybe ten years younger than her charge), gardened like crazy and—heaven help us—made brownies. (Quiet edible. And the house remained whole.) Sunday we all returned to the park (Lily did lunch; Ducky, dessert), where Charlie demonstrated what she was learning in her Monday afternoon tumbling classes, Evelyn and Lily threw in some of the floor moves from belly dancing and yours truly kept her butt on the ground. I pay enough for health insurance already.

"I want a computer," Victoria announced a couple of days later. (Charlie was MIA that afternoon due to a day-long field trip.)

"Dear god, why?" Ducky muttered. "Mother, you don't like computers," he said loudly. "You remember what happened—"

Victoria gave a regal wave and made a noise that was suspiciously like a raspberry. "He was just a Nervous Nellie."

I glanced at Ducky; "Timothy," he mouthed. Ah. "Mother, you destroyed the hard drive!"

"Pooh." Another hand wave. "It was filthy."

"She felt the compressed air wasn't doing an adequate job of cleaning," he said quietly. "While Timothy's back was turned… she washed the hard drive." I winced. "With Scotch."

"Hooboy."

"Donald." She was getting irritated. "I _need_ a com_pu_ter!"

"Why?" he almost moaned.

"I want to send letters to my granddaughter!"

"Oh." He frowned. "Well…"

"My Aunt Dee is the family Luddite," I muttered. "We got her up and running on e-mail. Let's give it a shot."

We left Victoria under the watchful eye of Miss Keithley (Ducky sweet talked her into staying late) and headed over to the new 'n' used computer store. We found an enthusiastic, probably over-caffeinated salesgirl who had just set _her_ grandmother up with a computer and were back home within an hour and a half.

It took us almost as long to get the damned thing set up. Miss Keithley looked on in mild disapproval then quietly took her leave of us; Victoria kept trying to help (and kept getting in the way). Finally I took her by the arms and marched her to the sofa. "You sit here and think up what you want to write to Charlotte, okay?" She beamed at me and nodded enthusiastically.

It wasn't the computer—that took us about five minutes. No, it was getting the area cleared out and set up. She had a lifetime supply of crap on the table and in the area we were using and it had to go somewhere. The computer was a snap: out of the box, plug it in and go, much to my chagrin. Ducky kept harking back to the disaster with McGee; the idea of a CPU tower that his mother could readily access made him flinch. He was leaning toward an iMac; I kept pointing out that a PC would have more programs and games available. After 'discussing' it back and forth for a good half hour, he finally looked at me and said, "Sandy—what programs do you thing Mother would _run_?" Good point. (Besides, they had a used iMac in purple, her favorite color.) Finally we had the thing purring happily atop what had been her jigsaw puzzle desk and introduced her to her new screen name, Grandma4Charlotte. She gave us a puzzled look. "Why can't I remain Victoria Mallard?"

Ducky started to launch into the real reasons why you don't want your name out in cyberspace and I cut over him with, "It's more fun to be Charlotte's Grandma, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then?" I parked her on the chair at the desk. "Okay, let's get crackin'."

While we walked her through the steps of starting up the e-mail program I wrote down everything the way I did for Aunt Dee. Step. By. Step. Yes, she only had to click the envelope icon, but there was no guarantee she'd remember that in the morning. Write it down. (Add pictures later.) Finally we were at a blank screen. "What do I write?"

"Write her a letter. Anything you want."

She stumbled for several minutes—she was wracking her brain for things to write, and wordwrap is a mind-blowing notion at first (hey, _I _learned to type on a manual typewriter, too)—but she started getting into the swing of things.

The slow tick-tick-tick turned into tap-tap-tap then tappity-tappity-tap-tap then rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat. Her fingers started to fly over the keyboard. My jaw literally fell open and I turned to Ducky.

He looked unabashedly proud. "Mother was a legal secretary to one of the oldest firms in London for almost thirty years. She didn't need to work," he quickly assured me. "She found it… entertaining. And she was so good, they begged her to stay long past retirement."

"I can see why." Holy crap. Her out-of-practice, bent fingers were doing sixty wpm easy—even though she still hit the return key every so often (took me a year to totally break the habit).

"She used to be much faster. It's been a while."

I'm jealous of a little old lady. "Charlie was wanting to learn shorthand—"

"We'll see."

"Oh, dear."

We both whipped our heads toward her. 'Oh dear' is right up there with 'Uh-oh' and 'Oops.' "'Oh dear,' what?" Ducky asked grimly.

"I've broken it."

"Already?" he groaned. (My question was, _how_?)

"I wanted to make an exclamation mark, I found the apostrophe but when I add the period…"

"Don't worry, Mother, dear." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "They added keys that your old machine didn't have." He pointed to the + and \ and { and ^ keys. "See? Right above the 1—you don't have to use a lower case L to make a 1, now, either—but if you push the shift key and—"

"Oh!" she gasped. "How cunning!" She poked the key and made a "!" appear. Her eyes widened in delight and she giggled like a little girl. Ducky and I exchanged amused glances.

Victoria made several lines of gibberish, all sorts of interesting symbols that looked like the world's longest cussword, then got back to her message. God knows what she was saying, but she sure was saying a lot of it.

"When you're all done, let us know and we'll get that sent to Charlotte." I patted her shoulder. She nodded and kept on typing.

One Scotch (Ducky) and a Chambord over ice (yours truly) later, she was finished with Victoria Mallard's War and Peace. "Okay, to send it, you move the little arrow and click—"

"Send?"

The woman is not stupid. Occasionally gaga, but not stupid. "Yep."

_Your e-mail has been sent_.

"Okay, now, Charlotte will get that e-mail—"

"What is an e-mail?"

"Uh—what you just sent."

"I sent a letter."

"Eeeeeyesss… it's _electronic_ mail. That's why they call it _e_-mail."

"Oh." She smiled brightly. Probably still lost.

"So. She'll get that e-mail and probably answer tomorrow—" _It'll take her that long to read it all._

"Or not." There was a wryness to Ducky's laugh. He pointed to the bottom corner of the screen.

I glanced up_**. Instant message from BibliophileBaby. Accept? YES/NO.**_

"What is that?" Victoria looked apprehensive.

"That's an instant message from Charlotte." I clicked on the _**YES**_ before she could ask me what an instant message was.

_Welcome to cyberspace, Grandma!_

"What do I do? What do I do?"

"Type and answer in that little screen. Just make sure you don't hit enter until you're done with that answer."

"Enter?"

"Uh, the return key. That sends the message."

_Is this Charlotte?_

After a moment came back, _Yes_.

"Oh! What do I do now?"

"Keep typing. This is like talking on the telephone."

"Only they can hear each other," Ducky whispered.

_Donald bought a computer for me.  
__So I see. Have you gone surfing yet?_

She looked up at me, baffled. "No," I said.

"And it will _stay_ no," her son muttered.

Visions of Victoria and "click here" made me agree. "We need McGee to block things. A-SAP."

Ducky shook his head. "Abby." I was surprised, though not that much, that Abby would be a computer genius. "McGee won't come near Mother if a computer is involved." Ah, yes. The baptized hard drive. "Mother and Abby get along quite well."

So I had seen in the past. Until she starts flashing on Ducky's Aunt Gloria, that is.

"Okay, you wanna keep an eye on the newest Internet junkie while I do the dishes?"

He looked torn. He plainly didn't want to hover over his mom keeping her off porn sites and away from scam e-mails, but he's a good, responsible son. "You go on…"

I kissed his cheek. "I'll take the next shift," I whispered. "You want another drink?"

"Oh, my! How delightful!"

Ducky gave me a truly pathetic look. "_Please_."

/ / / / /

Ducky finally had to almost literally pull the plug at ten, telling his mother that Charlotte needed to go to bed. (_We_ needed to go to bed. The kid was good for another four hours, easy.) Just to be safe, he went back down at midnight and pulled the power cord and then hid it when he left for work. (If we had left Miss Keithley with the task of babysitting Victoria on the Internet, she'd have needed to be committed.) He called while I was driving to work to let me know Abby was happy to come home with him after work to fix all the problems.

I decided to forego computer class part two. I still had tons of books to sort through (I had lied to Victoria the other week; I barely started on them). If you looked at sorting them between now and, say, New Year's, I was going like gangbusters. Getting them done by the end of the month—not so much.

In between everything else that needed doing, I got another three boxes sorted. By late afternoon I was ready to hang my pride and joy, the James Joyce poster.

The poster had been a gift to Dr. Smythe from one of his grad students. It shows the last line of _Ulysses_ (part of Molly's soliloquy, over 12,000 words long—yes, 12,000+ words in one sentence)… diagrammed. Probably 75% of my customers will be utterly baffled since they haven't taught sentence diagramming since I was in high school (not in public schools, anyway). Despite my college major I was never very good at sentence diagramming (and I _know_ I read _Ulysses_ but don't ask me for the details; that was over 30 years ago)—but this poster is awe-inspiring. And I know Ducky will flip over it just because he's, well, because he's Ducky.

I nailed a back frame to the wall so that if anyone tried to steal it, they'd have to tear down the wall to do it. (We book people are an odd lot. I know this thing will be popular, even with the ones who didn't have diagramming beaten—er, drilled into them in school.) I stood back, admiring my work, when Marcy came up, wireless receiver in hand. "Evelyn Campbell?"

That's right, she never met Evvie. "Hey, what's up?"

"Wondering if you're almost done with sorting and shelving the new stuff." She sounded almost too chipper.

"Of course," I lied, turning my back on the dozens (okay, hundreds) of file boxes that made my office almost impassable. (One good earthquake and I'm dead.)

"Your nose is growing."

I sighed. "I got a little behind."

"You need a hand?"

"You offerin'?"

"Sure. Lily is taking Charlie for her once a month visit to the Kemmelbachers." (Dragging is probably the more accurate verb.) "They're going to watch the fireworks at the Mall." Holy crap—it really was the 4th of July. "I'd gladly go and support both of them, but she doesn't see any reason I should be tortured like that. If I'm not there, they can pretend Lily is straight but hasn't found the right guy."

"Jeez, Ev." They were idiots. Flat out idiots. Ev is the kind of friend/daughter-in-law/extended family/whatever that everyone should have. She'll feed your cat, water your plants, house sit, baby sit, horse sit, hang out to sign for your packages or even pick you up at the airport at 3 a.m. (And god knows I was glad to see her when she did.) "They're idiots." It was the perfect word.

"Oh, I know they are," she said cheerfully. "I figure you need help, I'm bored—and Shari's has root beer floats on special—"

"You're evil."

"And onion strings are the BOGO for today."

"Get thee behind me, Satan—"

"And shove harder." I could hear her smile through the phone line. "And I could get us chocolate chip malteds, double whipped cream for dessert—"

I actually groaned. "What, are you planning on hitting me up to donate a major organ?"

"Damn, she found me out."

"Actually… I'm short tonight. Alone, even, as of twenty minutes from now. I would love the company." Not to mention dinner from the best drive through since A&W all but dusted off the map. "I'll leave the back door ajar."

/ / /

I was engrossed in sorting books and didn't hear the back door open. But I didn't have to turn around to know that Ev was there. The delectable, irresistible, enticing scent of Shari's mouthwatering, pound-packing onion strings—AKA Food of the Gods—preceded her. "Thank god. I've been dying, here."

"Just wasting away." She clicked her tongue.

"Bitch."

"Be nice or I'll take it all back."

"You're not a bitch."

"Yeah, I really feel the love," she said with a laugh.

"Gimme, gimme, gimme."

"You sound like that little monster kid from _League of Their Own_."

"But I'm cuter."

"Barely."

Ev had brought a ton of food, bags shoved into a slightly battered box reading Gold'n Dip't Canola Oil. "How many people are we expecting?"

"Two of us. All night."

"They won't be home til late?"

Her smile became a trifle grim. "They drag it out as late as they can. They're really pissed to lose out their weekend."

I stopped moving stuff from the box to the break room table. "Oh, Ev, we can—"

"No." She cut me off. "Charlie is not giving up her weekends with Victoria. She only goes because the court granted them one visit a month. Reluctantly. Charlie fought for none, but the judge wouldn't go that far. But when she hits thirteen or so, they'll revisit that arrangement. She has a calendar on the wall, counting down the days."

I shook my head. "Poor kid."

"When Lily and I ran into each other last Christmas—" She smiled. Her eyes had that soft look you get when you're thinking about someone you love. "It was like the past fifteen years never happened. I didn't even recognize her," she confessed. "But she recognized me. She was out shopping with Charlie; when I heard her call Lily 'Mommy' I just wanted to die for a moment. But while Charlie was busy spending her Border's gift cards, Lily caught me up on the family history."

"Did it scare you?" I blurted out around my cheeseburger.

"Scare me?"

"Getting back with Lily, getting a kid with the package…"

She smiled, picking out the least crunchy of the onion strings. "A little. At first. I mean, there are a lot of people against her, against me, against us."

"The Ledbetters."

"Kemmelbachers," she corrected with a laugh. "Oh, yeah, they're big fans. But just people in general. They're okay with someone being gay—just not _too_ gay. Throw a kid into the mix and add in a partner who comes into the picture after the fact and, well—"

"Yeah, Dr. Dingdong would have a conniption fit," I said, referring irreverently to a popular radio show. (We occasionally tuned in at the store—just for the laughs.)

"Two, even. But back to your question—yeah, it scared me. At first. If it had just been Lily, hell, yeah, we would have moved in together in a week. It was Hannah that really broke us apart back then."

Another strike against a dead woman.

"But I was worried that I might mess up Charlie's life. I mean, jeez, we can't even get married—"

"Yet," I said pointing emphatically with a fry.

"Yet," she conceded. "Hopefully soon."

"So what convinced you?"

"Charlie." She laughed. "I started coming over for dinner—damn, Lily can cook—but I always went home. One night, Lily was making tuna spaghetti—yeah, but it's actually good," she said when I stopped in mid-bite, my face clearly horrified. "And it's Charlie's favorite. So one night she was fixing dinner, Charlie and I were sitting on the couch going over her homework, and she just leaned her head on my shoulder and said, 'I wish you'd stay forever. Mommy is ever so much more contented since we found you at the mall.'" She laughed as I burst out laughing and almost lost the chunk of cheeseburger I was eating. "That's our girl. Lily and I discussed it and… the rest is history."

"I love that kid. So does Ducky. And his mom."

"I can't tell you how much it means to have the three of you in our family. Every kid should have an extended family, in my opinion. My family is back in Oregon, what little we have left—" (Not long after she started at Papyrus, Ev had one of those really crappy years you just want to erase. Right before Valentine's Day, her dad died of a heart attack; her mom pretty much wasted away within a couple of months. That summer her older brother suffered a massive stroke; he's living (sort of) in a care facility, barely able to communicate. While her younger brother was driving to visit the one in the extended-care facility on Thanksgiving, he wrecked his motorcycle; they saved one leg but not the other, and he went through a couple of years of physical therapy to get back to a normal life. By the time Christmas rolled around, she was scared to answer the phone. The 31st brought the last call—her sister, the one who played with recreational pharmaceuticals, got a bad dose of Ecstasy (like there's a good one?) and died while in police custody. January 1 was a relief for us all.) "Lily's older brothers—um—aren't the most stable people in the city. She has an Aunt Jeanette who's not what you'd call a 'people person.' And Hannah's family."

"Well—" I took a big gulp of my root beer float and got fizzies in my sinuses. (Shari makes her own root beer from scratch. In freaking credible.) "If I thought I'd get a kid even half like Charlie—"

Ev's eyes opened wide. "So-o-o-o, Grandma Mallard isn't so far off?"

"Don't go there. Don't _go_ there!"

/ / /

With Evelyn helping (and several breaks for sustenance) we made short work of the boxes of books. By eleven-thirty we were on the last of the science fiction, the last of the onion strings (kept warm in the toaster oven) and the last of our to-die-for malteds (kept cold and thick by putting them in the back of the fridge, the cold zone that freezes lettuce and eggs if you aren't careful). "I can handle the rest. You go home." Other than the last six boxes of skiffy there were about ten boxes earmarked for online sales. Those would be tedious, needing extensive research.

"Nonsense. We're almost done." She slurped out the last of her shake, plunked the cup down like she was in an old time Western and pushed back from the table. "Bet we can do it in a half hour."

I groaned good-naturedly. I really did appreciate the company and the help. I'm a slacker unless prodded, and she was prodding. "Okay, okay…" I staggered back to the sorting tables and opened up the first box. "Ah, good ol' sexist Heinlein."

"But I love those covers from the 70s."

"True. They are pretty. And there are some gorgeous Andre Nortons in one of these boxes I haven't seen yet. But I know I packed 'em."

"Oh, there's a box at the store I need to bring over. It was all the Tarot decks Pippa had, including the one from Norton's _Witch World_ series. It got mixed up with my boxes, sorry."

"No prob, you can bring it next Sunday if nothing else."

We worked in silence for several minutes, the shuffle of covers sliding against each other a counterpoint to the Moody Blues playing quietly over the speakers. "So. You and Ducky, hunh."

I grinned at the cover of _Lest Darkness Fall_. "Yeah. Me and Ducky," I said, knowing the atrocious grammar would make her flinch. It did.

"You looking at making it a permanent thing?"

I shrugged. "He hasn't asked. I haven't asked."

"If he _did_ ask…?"

_The Dragon and the George_ (one of my favorites), _Coraline_, _A Swiftly Tilting Planet_, _The Chessmen of Mars_… "I dunno. We'll find out when it happens, I guess."

"I'm surprised he was never married before."

"Nope. Came close a couple of times, he said, but—nope." _Men Like Gods_, _A Clockwork Orange, The Lady's Not for Burning_—whoops, wrong stack. I set it on the "misfiled" pile.

"No kids…"

"Please. Victoria wouldn't be asking me every week, 'Do we have good news, dear?' if he had any kids."

"What would you have done… if he did have kids?"

"You mean like you and Lily and Charlie?" I shrugged. _Something About Eve, The Twilight Zone Companion, The Star Trek Concordance_. "I honestly don't know. I mean, if he had had kids, we're talking—what, your age? It's darned unlikely that he's got a teenager lurking in the background." Just the thought made me shudder faintly. I started carting the last chunks of books to the correct shelves; integrating them would be done tomorrow. (I hoped.)

"So he really—he hasn't—"

"Jeez, Ev," I laughed. "It sounds like you're trying to—" I broke off as I turned. "What's up." I didn't make it a question.

She stared at the table, half-heartedly sorting the last few books. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that bullshit. I saw your eyes." I took the books from her hands and set them down. "Spill it."

She looked off to the side. "Forget I said anything. It's nothing."

"The hell it's nothing. Tell me. Now." I laughed shortly. "I know he doesn't have a wife on the side, he wouldn't have the time—"

"No, no! Of course not!"

"Then if you don't tell me—" I sighed in frustration. Threats were useless. "Please. Ev. Just—say it." Hey, I should be glad it lasted this long, right? Almost a whole year.

She sat down and folded her hands like a schoolgirl and stared at them. "Lily always does a hard copy of her trees. And her files are very organized. But sometimes she forgets to put things back. I mean, the way she gripes about me not doing the dishes—"

I sat down and clenched my fists under the table to keep from rushing her.

"So I'm always saving files and closing the computer and putting her notes away and… I knocked the damned box over. I had to re-file a bunch of stuff. And I started to sort of browse—I'd see an interesting name and get lost for a few minutes. I found one, it wasn't the name, it was the letter that was attached. The stationary was so pretty, it caught my eye—kind of Maxfield Parrish-looking…"

My nails were cutting into the palms of my hands.

"So, anyway, the woman said that she just discovered she was adopted. This was one of Lily's cases from a couple of years ago. Adopted, that is, her mother married this man when she was a baby, she grew up thinking he was her father, but she found a second birth certificate, her original birth certificate, and she wanted to know about her birth father and his family… her mother is hospitalized, she's not… in touch… with the world…" Ev continued to stare at her hands. "Her name is Fran. She's twenty-nine, thirty, somewhere in there, she's from Los Angeles—"

"_Where were you thirty years ago?"_

"_California."_

"Her father—"

"You, ah, don't have to connect all the dots, Ev. I'm not totally stupid."

"You're not stupid at all," she said sharply. She sighed. "And I don't—I don't think he knows. I just can't see him knowing and not—doing something. At least telling you."

Yeah. She was right. I sighed heavily and let my hands loosen up. Ow. "Why didn't Lily say anything?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm sure she doesn't remember. This was a while ago. And all she does is the genealogy research. She's not a private eye, she doesn't track people down. And even if she did—well, this Fran Peterson was her client. Not Ducky. I probably shouldn't be saying anything, but she's not _my_ client, and you are _my_ friend… and, what the hell, birth certificates are public record…"

Several minutes passed. "How long have you known?" I asked quietly.

"Since, uh, this afternoon."

"Just came over to help sort books, hunh?" I said with the lightest of sarcasm. We were both staring at the table. "And bringing a box from Shari's to ease the pain."

"Well…" I caught a flicker of a smile from the corner of my eye.

"Beats getting pie-eyed and whacking my way through a carton of Camels."

"Oh, shit." Her chair scraped back and she hurried over to my side of the table. She wrapped her arms around me as she had through so many bungled romances in my past, resting her cheek atop my head. "Don't," she said earnestly. "Don't run away. This is the one, I know he's the one for you. You guys are so good together—dammit, I shouldn't have—"

"No." I swallowed hard and sat up. "I'm glad you did. And… no… I won't run away." I sniffled slightly. "I won't run away. Not from Ducky."

"You, uh, going to tell him?"

I stared at the lettering on the book in front of me. Computer print font, very hip in the 60s. _Brave New World_. "Yeah. I'll tell him."

_Brave New World._

Right.

* * *

-2-


	3. Chapter 3:  What

**CHAPTER THREE**

**What**

* * *

Hello. I'm a plateful of tasty nuggets and I'll be your entrée for the evening.

Yeah, I chickened out. (Of _course_ I chickened out.) I didn't sleep all that night, and I chickened out the next day.

"You aren't coming to dinner?" Ducky sounded absolutely wistful over the phone.

"I've been sick as a dog all day. Ev brought over take out from Shari's last night to keep us going and I overindulged." Only half a lie. I don't know if it was nerves or looking at my hollow-eyed puss in the mirror or both, but on top of not sleeping worth a hill of beans, breakfast didn't stay where I put it.

"But if that was last night, surely by now…"

"Yeah, if I'd taken care of the problem earlier. But I tried to wait it out, stupid me…" Was my laugh a bit shrill? It sounded that way to my ears.

"Can I bring you anything?"

I almost panicked. "No, no, I'm good… I'm going to get some over the counter junk, go home and curl up with a book and a hot water bottle and Foot, not necessarily in that order." I bit my lip; definitely hot water bottle. The muscle I'd pulled was making itself known again. I was almost doubled over in pain. The day-long indigestion caused by Ev's revelation last night didn't help.

"Well… if you need anything, call? Please?"

"You bet." You'd've never guessed from my voice that tears were snaking down my face.

"I love you."

That was almost my undoing. I gripped the phone. "I love you, too," I managed. "Kiss your mom. And Charlie." After suffering through an evening with Grandmother and Grandfather Kemmelbacher and assorted aunts and uncles, Charlie would be cemented in place at Ducky's that evening.

"I will. I promise."

Valerie didn't bat an eye when I told her I was going home early. "How late did you stay up sorting books?"

"Late," I lied.

"We can finish the shelving. You go home, you look awful."

I looked awful. What a shock.

/ / /

Y'know, you can find almost anyone on Google? Francesca "Fran" Peterson—I'm guessing it's the Fran Peterson in question—is a makeup artist. Reasonably respectable line of credits, a lot of science fiction and horror flicks, a few mainstream TV shows. There were some blurry pictures of her in the makeup room, putting appliances on someone from that gawdawful remake of _The Wax Museum_ Cameron Carson did a couple of years ago. (The makeup and costumes were good, at least.) No picture up for her credit page (I think you have to pay for the privilege on IMDb).

The bio on her was a little skimpy. Single. No kids. Born in 1978. USC alum. Parents Mary Ellen ("Marielle") and Alan Peterson. Both had active links; Marielle started off as script supervisor and continuity for a number of TV series and then storyboard artist, illustrator and matte designer for a whole slew of films, mostly from the 70s and 80s, then drifting off to nothing. There was zip for the last twenty years. Alan was still active both as a stuntman, double and stunt coordinator. He also had a few co-author credits on some forgettable action-adventure shows. Fran was listed as their only child.

Only child.

_Ducky's_ only child.

I wrapped my favorite blanket tighter and huddled in my chair. Despite the sticky heat of the season, I felt ice cold.

_You have to tell him.  
__(It's not my place. Marielle should do that.)  
__Ev said she's institutionalized.  
__(Make it Fran's job, then.)  
__Lily isn't a P.I. Her only job was to do a family tree. What if Fran can't find him?_

Tears pricked my eyes_. Do I want her to find him?_

Shit.

I tried the old 'walk a mile in my moccasins' routine. _If I were Ducky, would I want to know?_

Yes. Oh, hell, yes.

I folded my arms on the desk and laid my head down. I stared off at the now 90-degree canted wall, the needlepoint picture of cats in the library a bit blurry. Face it—this isn't something you'd toss off casually. 'Great dinner, honey, would you please pass the butter—and, by the way, you have a daughter in L.A.' No, this needed at least a little more finesse.

My cell phone chirped softly. I checked the screen: Ducky. I sighed and let it ring twice more before answering. "Hi."

"Hello, dear… I wasn't sure if I wanted you to answer or not. I wanted to hear your voice, but I wanted you to get as much rest as possible, too. I'm afraid selfishness won out."

I laughed, even though I was wiping my eyes. "That's okay. You always make me feel better, just hearing your voice."

"_Are_ you feeling better?"

I look a steadying breath. "Yeah, I am."

"I'm so glad. Mother was quite worried about you, too."

_Probably figures it's morning sickness._ To my horror, I burst into tears.

"Sandy! Dearest, what—what's wrong, are you—"

"I'm fine," I blubbered. "Really, I just—you, your mom, I just—I love you. Both. So much."

He sighed in relief. "And I love you. So very, very much." I let out a deep breath, feeling better. Feeling anchored. "Do you think you'll still feel up to going out Saturday evening?" he asked hesitantly.

Saturday? Oh, yeah. He'd mentioned something about this Saturday—like, two or three _months_ ago. "Yeah. I'm sure I will."

"Can you take tomorrow off?"

"I guess I could. What do you have in mind?"

"Sleep," he said firmly. "You. Stay home. Sleep. You're doing far too much—the store, Mother—"

"Less than you do," I protested.

"I've been doing this for years. You haven't. If the store can spare you, I prescribe a day of rest, relaxation and nothing. Unplug the house phone, turn off the cell—"

"Then I won't be able to talk to _you_."

"Hmm. All right. Turn it back on… at eight."

It sounded good, a day of nothing. "I think I'll play hooky."

"Good," he said. "I want you relaxed and rested for our evening out."

That piqued my interest. "Where _are_ we going?" With Ducky, you never knew. But it was always a good time. (He's even gotten me to not mind Android Lust. I won't go so far as to say "like"—not yet.)

"Well… you know that slinky black and burgundy number you wore to _A Chorus Line_?"

I blushed furiously. Ducky had been very, _very_ complimentary about my outfit—verbally and non-verbally. We had done our own version of "What I Did For Love" back at the hotel. No singing, but lots of acrobatics. "Yeah."

He chuckled softly; I have a feeling he knew I was beet red. "It would be perfect."

"Perfect for…" I prodded.

"Our evening out." Sneaky.

"Dancing? I just want to know what kind of shoes to wear," I added quickly.

"Well, I can't see that wearing high heels is ever a good idea."

"Hey, I seem to remember a wolf whistle coming from your side of the room—"

"Well, yes…" I could imagine the look in his eyes. Mmmh, mmmh, mmmh, yes, indeed, I could. "It's rather like admiring a—a Lamborghini. It's dangerous—" (Dangerous?) "Exciting—" (Hmm.) "Classically beautiful—" (Go on, go on.) "You know you shouldn't slip into the driver's seat—but you can't resist." (Hoo-boy, I was destined for some nice dreams that night.) "And they just show off your gorgeous legs so perfectly," he said, dragging us back to the topic at hand.

He does the most wonderful things for my ego. "Well… maybe I'll wear those… later."

"Mmmh," he purred. "I like that idea."

So did I. Woof.

"By the way—you might want to check your e-mail."

"Oh?" I asked hopefully.

"Mother sent you an e-card," he whispered.

Wow. "I'm—shocked. And flattered."

"She was worried that if she mailed it, you'd already feel better by the time you got the card. The concept of e-mail and e-cards and instantaneous delivery just astonishes her. And delights her."

"Somehow I don't see her giving up her monogrammed stationary in the near future."

"Heavens, no."

I clicked on my e-mail flag. There it was, the first on the list. I opened it up and hugged myself. It was a page full of beautiful, bright blossoms and on the bottom it read _My Dearest Cassandra—please get well soon. I miss you. Love, Mother. _I was back to crying again. "Oh, Ducky…"

"I'll tell her it made you feel better," he said gently.

"Very much so." I really do love that crazy old lady.

"You go to bed, darling. Or back to bed. I'll call you tomorrow evening." He gave a soft sigh. "I wish you pleasant dreams."

All things considered—they were pleasant dreams. I think wearing his robe helped. (Sure didn't hurt.) But every so often an angelic waif with big blue eyes and blonde curls would invade the edges of my thoughts.

You don't have to be a psych major to get that one.

/ / / / /

Valerie wasn't surprised when I called her early the next morning. "No offense, but you looked lousy all week," she said cautiously.

"Thanks heaps."

"Hey, I don't want you to croak. You're a great boss."

"And you're a great AM. Which is why I feel safe calling in dead."

"You want me to stop off at The Soup Pot on my way in, get you some chicken noodle soup? Better than penicillin."

"I appreciate the offer—" I was starting to salivate at the idea. "But they open at ten."

She gave an almost evil laugh. "My brother works there. Open time means _nuttin'_. You want corn muffins?"

"Heck, yeah." I was doubly glad she'd moved to my neck of the woods this last spring.

"Be there in half an hour. I'll take it out of petty cash."

"Sold."

Twenty-seven minutes flat. Three quart buckets full of chicken and noodles and homemade broth and veggies. And a huge bag of delicate, fluffy corn muffins and a big container of honey butter. "You're a life saver. Send out for lunch on the company tab."

"C'est Bonne?" I raised an eyebrow. "Golden Dragon?" I nodded. GD was bad enough when you're talking 8 people on a Friday afternoon. "You're still not coming in on Sunday, right?"

"Nope. No more Sundays for a while, maybe for good. And I probably won't be in tomorrow."

She stared at me a long moment and I steeled myself for the inevitable. "Cassandra… are you… retiring or something?"

Not the question I was expecting. (Thank god.) "Not exactly. But—well—you've seen Mrs. Mallard." She nodded, managing to not roll her eyes. "Dr. Mallard sometimes can't get away when he needs to. Or he has to risk leaving her alone sometimes. Or if he does leave work and things escalate—well, because I don't have the problems he does and I have a lot more people as fallbacks—_reliable_ people," I added, "I'm able to give them a hand."

"He's a really nice guy," she said simply.

"That he is."

She gave me a look that was first cousin to a smirk but didn't say anything. "Well, feel better soon, okay?"

"I'll do my best." I put the soup and muffins (well, all but one) in the fridge, pulled Ducky's robe back on—and went back to sleep.

/ / /

_Hun_gry.

_Hun_gry _now_.

I opened my eyes and my gaze was filled with the face of a very pissed off cat. "Me-_now_!" he yowled. I lurched off the waterbed and shuffled to the kitchen.

"Oh, Foot. I am _so_ sorry." His gravity kibble bowl was totally empty. Not even a crumb. Even the dried bits from his wet food bowl were gone. (At least his water bowl was full and the fill bottle was half full; I wasn't a totally neglectful pet parent.) I loaded up the kibble container and treated him to a can of Chicken of the Sea. From the tail lashing, I might be forgiven. If I live to Victoria's age. Maybe.

My stomach gurgled and I realized that I was hungry, too, and that corn muffin had been a long time ago. I checked the clock and did a double take. 8:08. I'd been asleep since just after 8:00 _a.m._ Twelve hours. Whoa.

I dumped a container of soup into a large glass measuring cup and shoved it in the microwave, put a handful of muffins in the toaster oven, turned both of them on and bolted for the shower. It was too tempting in there. I spent a good ten minutes under the spray washing off the sticky salt of summer; by that time the soup had boiled and cooled and the muffins had warmed just to the point of crisping the edges. I parked in front of the computer and by the third spoonful of soup decided life wasn't so bad.

Lots of emails on the store account. Most were search requests; Valerie was training Randy to handle the online work, so I forwarded those to her line. Requests for donations; I made notes of what to donate and added them to Valerie's list with a reminder to print out a copy of each of them and leave them for Miyoko for bookkeeping. A couple of schools were already sending out ad renewals for their papers; I remembered a reasonable response to both of them and agreed to renew both ads. Off to Miyoko for payment.

I was killing time.

I had left the cell phone on all day but there hadn't been any calls. (Okay, I probably wouldn't have woken up, to be honest.) But Ducky had promised to call around 8:00, so I was hovering. And waiting.

At 8:52 my patience was rewarded. I caught the phone on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Oh, Sandy, you sound so much better."

"I feel great." Okay, I still had that pulled gut muscle from hauling boxes and, yes, it hurt like hell every so often. And I still had the 'how do I tell Ducky?' drama playing out in my head that made my stomach do the occasional flip-flop. But, overall, things were pretty good. "How are things at your end of the world?"

He chuckled. "The sleepover progresses nicely. Mother and Charlotte are playing backgammon. They have plans tomorrow of sorting through a dozen or more boxes of photographs they dragged down from the attic. Charlotte is putting them in a semblance of chronological order and Mother is identifying people and locations. Or trying to."

"Oh, that's wonderful. We have boxes of stuff from my grandparents and great-grandparents that we'll probably never figure out."

"We just got back from buying photo albums for the grand photography project." His voice grew excited. "Did you know that you can buy a case—a case!—of fifteen photo albums at Costco?" I love the fact that bargains make him tickled pink.

"Now I do," I laughed. "You can get anything in bulk at Costco."

"Normally it's $10.50 for a pack of three, but buying a case nets an additional 12% off. The manager made a special deal." (The manager was probably a woman and susceptible to blue eyes.)

"$6.30." Ev does taxes; my shining point is discounts (so long as the percentages don't get absurdly complex).

"I'm so sorry we got back late—"

I waved a hand that he couldn't see. "No problem. It was to a good cause. And they'll be well occupied tomorrow."

"That's a certainty." His voice lowered. "Any preference for dinner?"

"Indian?"

He actually gasped slightly. "Sandy, you've been sick for two days!"

Only sort of sick. "Thai?"

A patient sigh. "Do you want to spend the evening out—or at the emergency room?"

"Surprise me."

"That comes later."

Promising. "Well, what city will we be heading to for the entertainment portion of the evening?"

"D.C."

"How about GW?" (George Washington Slept Here. Dumbass name, great food.) "I know you love that thing they do with turkey medallions and mushrooms. And I would be more than happy to suffer through their London Broil platter." Twist my rubber arm.

"Wonderful suggestion, in more ways than one. Would five be convenient? Then we can have a nice, leisurely dinner before; maybe dessert at C'est Bonne after…?"

"Lovely." 100 layer chocolate crepe cake, here I come.

"I'll be picking you up… at home?"

"Yep. Playing hooky again."

"Good. Oh—just a moment, dear." There was a quick muffled conversation. "Oh, good heavens. Mother wants to order pizza!"

"Rock on, Mom," I laughed.

"If she starts joyriding in the Morgan…"

God, what a mental image. "Come on. Like a cheese pizza will kill her. Or lead her to a life of crime."

"Charlotte said something about a 'sweet pig' and mother wants to try it."

"Ah. Ham or Canadian bacon or, in a pinch, pepperoni."

"That's not too—"

"And pineapple."

I could hear the shudder over the phone. "Pineapple?"

"It's delish. Honest." I was pretty sure he wouldn't be sneaking down for a midnight pizza raid. "So. What are your plans tomorrow?"

"Grocery shopping—" I winced. I should have done that today. Slacker. "Refrigerator arriving around noon—"

"Wait. What?"

"The refrigerator finally gave up the ghost this afternoon. I borrowed every ice chest I could find and bought out the store of dry ice, so most of the food was salvaged. They have the new one plugged in at the store so that when they deliver it it will already be cold."

"Good plan.":

"After that I need to go to the garden center. Mother wants a greenhouse so she can grow vegetables this fall and winter."

"Oh, hothouse tomatoes this winter. Red, not pink. Love it."

"What a concept."

"You're going to be busy tomorrow."

"Thus I will feel completely justified in leisure activities later on."

"Good. Are you, ah, spending the night tomorrow?"

"I was hoping to." I wasn't sure if he sounded shy or suggestive. Maybe both.

"You are _always_ welcome to stuff your slippers under my bed."

"Given that Evelyn and Lily already volunteered to spend tomorrow night with Charlotte and Mother…"

I grinned. "Planning ahead. I like it."

/ / /

Since I had been asleep all day, I was wired for lights and sound all night. I went trolling on some of the online remaindered book sites (and spent a fortune), played on Ebay for a while (and put out another ton in bids) and went totally bananas on Amazon. For the sake of my bank account I logged in at Gamezonlyne. By the time dawn broke and the pieces were glued into midmorning I had racked up points on their versions of Scrabble, Boggle and Upwords and a new puzzle game set in the realm of the Greek Gods, and chowed through the remaining soup and muffins. About round 47 of Boggle I hit the wall and crashed. I literally dozed off while the computer rolled the next round and ended up with a zero score. How humiliating. I woke up enough to close out the site and face planted on the bed. I was asleep in seconds.

_Weeds._

_Lots and lots of weeds. Charlie and I were weeding like crazy but as fast as we pulled them out, new ones popped up. The petunias we'd planted—beautiful purple and white solids and stripes—were being crowded out. "Quickly, dear girls!" Victoria sat behind us on a gold and black throne with violet pillows and hangings, a photo album on her lap. "We need to take a photograph!" An ottoman by her feet was occupied by a young woman with long, golden curls and beautiful blue eyes. "Oh, Grandmamma, thank you for the pizza. We don't have things like this in California."_

_"Sandy?"_

_I leaped up from the flowerbed—_

–-and fell onto the floor.

"Sandy! Oh, Cassandra, oh, my darling, I am so sorry!"

"Fine, fine, I'm fine," I babbled, clambering up. Familiar hands grasped my arms, helping steady me. I dragged a hand down my face. "Fine, fine," I repeated. I scrunched my eyes and shook my head. "Fine—whoa, _fine_!"

Ducky was dressed to the nines. Tens, elevens and twelves, too. His outfit was even sharper than what he'd worn in New York—this was tux, mirror-glossy shoes and black bow tie. Opal and gold cufflinks that I wanted to steal (or at least borrow) were the finishing touch.

"Jesus, you look—" Words flew through my mind. "Delicious."

He looked startled for a moment, then laughed. "Well, ah, thank you. You didn't answer, so I let myself in—" Good thing we had exchanged keys ages ago.

"Oh, shit!" I grabbed the clock. 5:04. "Shit! Double damn and hell! Stupid, lame-brained—shit, shit, _shit_! Oh, Ducky, I'm so sorry!" I tried to ignore the look in his eyes. I really need to work on my language filter. "I forgot to set my alarm."

"Perhaps we should—"

"No!" I knew what he was going to suggest. And I knew, from his sartorial splendor, that this evening was something special. I wasn't going to let him give it up, especially for no good reason. "I will be ready in a flash." I pulled him into the living room and opened Gamezonlyne. "Here. Back in less than one game of Scrabble, I promise."

I dashed into the master bath, took a record-breaking shower and did the fastest makeup job since my four-minute walk from Mom dropping me off and strolling into freshman homeroom. I slithered into Ducky's requested outfit, piled my hair on my head and anchored it with a couple of silver filigree chopsticks and found a pair of sling-back pumps with low heels. Eight minutes and twelve seconds, including getting the straps onto my ankles. Damn, can I perform under pressure or what?

Ducky was sitting in front of the computer, staring intently. One arm crossed his chest, the hand supporting the other elbow. His upraised hand sat near his chin, forefinger curved thoughtfully over his mouth. He turned slightly and glanced my way—and, oh, man, my knees almost gave way. Those eyes are my undoing.

And he knows it. "My. You are quick." He stood and took my hand, raising it to his lips for a little nibble of a kiss. "You look ravishing."

His kiss made me think back to our first date. Just a courtly kiss on the hand then, too, and I was left just as breathless. "I sure wouldn't mind being ravished."

My hand was gently let go of and he slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me close. "Gladly."

When I read _Stranger in a Strange Land_ at a young and impressionable age, Heinlein's description of Valentine Michael Smith's kissing talents made me shiver with oh-my-god-I-can't-wait-to-find-out delight. Ducky is as close to that perfection as anyone will ever be. I don't read minds—but it doesn't feel as though he's thinking of anything else other than what he's doing at the moment. Not, 'oh, darn, we need to leave in five minutes or we'll lose our reservation.' Not, 'hey, if I play this right, we'll end up in the bedroom soon.' He's thinking about just that second, just that instant in time, just what he's doing—and the person he's with. Which, by happy coincidence, happens to be me.

By silent accord we stayed on one target. No roaming charges—no nibbled ears, no pulse point hickeys, no clothing removed. Just kiss after kiss, long, slow and deep, each more arousing than the last. I was tingling all over; when he gently caressed my rear and pushed us just a little closer, oh, _hell_, there were parts that were absolutely on fire. (I'm surprised I didn't burn through my underwear.) He kissed my jaw line all the way to my ear. "Tonight?" he whispered.

"Oh, _yeah_." It was half-sigh, half-gasp. Nothing like a little anticipation.

He pulled back and cocked his head. "Hmm. Your makeup isn't even mussed."

I gave him a devilish grin. "Smudge-free lipstick. Won't rub off."

His look became totally wicked. "No matter… _what_ you do?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

He helped me slip on the embroidered chiffon "jacket" that goes with the dress. "Perhaps we should have oysters as an appetizer…?"

/ / /

GW was running a few minutes behind, so we didn't lose our reservation. Ducky didn't order oysters (thank heavens; I can't stand them, even if I'm not eating them), bypassed his favorite (turkey; far from the Thanksgiving-type platter most restaurants fall back on) and went instead with prawns in a weird raspberry and mushroom glaze. Weird—but good. I stuck with my tried-and-true London Broil (so tender it will fall apart if you cross your eyes at it) and we spent dinner trading bites of everything. Ducky opted for a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape; I'm not a wine conneisseur by far, but I know that stuff is a little on the high end—especially when you start tossing about the years and particulars of a vintage. (It was Ducky doing most of the tossing, not the sommelier.) Oh, well; he was going all out for the evening, that's for sure. And it _was_ very nice wine.

Public humiliation—also known as birthday in a restaurant—was going on a couple of tables away. Thank heavens they don't force the waitstaff to sing at GW. But when the family and friends started warbling _Happy_ _Birthday_ to the blushing teenage girl at the head of the table, the rest of the diners joined in. She was a squealer and a squeaker. She clapped her hands and squealed over the cake (a _very_ nice cake). She squeaked over the bouquets of purple and silver balloons. Apparently someone (probably har parents) had bought her a car for her birthday; all the gifts at the table were automotive in some shape or form. Plush seat covers in lavender (squeal). Crystal dangly mirror thingy (skriek of joy and a kiss to the friend who had given it to her). Brass key fob about 2x5; "Oh, my god! The Jonas Brothers!" (Squeaking shrieks.) (My guess is it was a replica of a concert ticket. A couple of years ago I had one for The Who.) License plate holder reading: _**Saw It – Wanted It – Pitched a Fit – Got It!**_ "Oh, Daddy!" (Laughing and giggling and making "squee!" noises while she hugged the patient (if amused) middle-aged man seated at the far end of the table.)

"Are you all right?"

_Daddy_. "I'm fine." I smiled and glanced toward the ceiling. "Split second of odd draft was all." Back burner that thought. Way on the far back burner.

"Ah."

As tempting as it was to scrape the plate (they make these cheddar potatoes that are addictive—you want to pick up the plate and lick it clean) I relinquished my dinner plate and we ended the meal with coffee, fruit and cheese. The waitress was a little surprised that we didn't order dessert, but I had my sights set on splitting a chocolate tower with Ducky later on. A slice of GW's silver cake _and_ a chocolate tower would have been pushing the limits just a tad. (Just a tad.)

"And… we're walking…"

I laughed at Ducky's imitation of a White House tourguide. "Yes, we are."

"It's not far, truly. And there are a couple of interesting stops on the way. Such as…" We had only gone a block or so and he stopped in front of a street vendor selling flowers. "No… no…" He held up flower after flower. "Perfect." The man has an excellent eye. The seller twisted some burgundy roses and lacy fern together and handed over the arrangement. "Oh. Dear. I can't really pin them…"

_Not unless I want to do a striptease on New Hampshire Avenue._ They were just heavy enough to be a danger. "I have an idea." The seller (about as far removed from _My Fair Lady_ as you could get, being about 23, Jamaican and male) had a mirror so buyers could pin flowers and check the result before walking off; he angled the mirror up so I could see my hair (first time I've ever felt tall) and I tucked the arrangement into my messy 'do. At his nod I snagged a couple of sprigs of baby's breath and—voila. It actually looked pretty good.

"You look wonderful." I could be dressed in a potato sack with seaweed strung in my hair and be complimented on my fashion forward thinking. But this time I was willing to think he was telling the truth.

"Thank you. That was a sweet addition to the evening." I looked around, curious. "National Symphony?"

"Close…"

"Kennedy Center?"

He nodded. "I… have a confession to make." My heart skipped a beat. Several, actually. "I filched a piece of your mail."

Totally not what I thought he was going to say. "You what?"

"Well… you had opened it and set it aside to do something. Chase after Mother, I believe. I saw the header and… redirected it to my pocket."

"What header is that?"

"'_Watch_ _A Book_.' It was a flyer for a fundraiser night at the theater, with the profits going to support the Literacy Fund. It's being put on by the ALA and the ABA."

I grinned. He's been around me long enough that he throws out _my_ professional acronyms without batting an eye.

"The money goes to a very worthy cause, and it sounded like a lovely evening—though I declined the dinner beforehand. One can only have so many 'chicken-or-fish' dinners in a year before one snaps."

"True dat." I kept my hand tucked in his arm as we headed toward F Street. "Just out of curiosity, why are we walking? I don't mind, it's a lovely night," I said quickly.

"Have you ever fought to get out of the parking there?" I shook my head. "We could walk halfway back to Silver Spring by the time we get out on the road. Far easier to leave it at the restaurant and walk back." He glanced at his pocket watch (I know he only wears it when he is out with me; it really isn't practical for work, but he treats it with near worship so I know he truly likes it); "Almost time."

"For the show? We'd better hustle."

"No, no, for a—a pre-show, as it were." We stopped in front of a sleek, modern hotel right at the bend of F and, well, F (it's that funky area where it goes from east/west to north/south, where the Saudi Press Agency used to be). The circle drive at the front of the hotel was dwarfed by one of the largest fountains I'd ever seen. Jets of water shot up to different heights and lights shifted and changed, all to the tune of something familiar. Mozart, I think.

We weren't alone. Some twenty or thirty people were with us on the sidewalk, watching the fountain. Waiting. Waiting for—what?

The lights in the fountain abruptly shut off. We could hear the water whooshing up and splashing back down. But for the water… silence. After a moment, a note… then another... another… By the time the dramatic chord hit, I was grinning. Deodato's pop version of _Also Sprach Zarathustra_—also known to those over 40 as the theme from _2001: A Space Odyssey._ The lights and water flashed and splashed in time to the music along with— "Oh, my god!"

I could feel Ducky's grin through the arm around my shoulders. "Amazing, aren't they?"

"_Oh_, my _god_!"

Five young women jumped, danced, and cavorted though the fountain, achieving impossibly high leaps and spins. How they did it without slipping, falling and breaking their collective necks was beyond me—but they did it. And in glittering bits that barely covered the essentials. (_That_ I knew the answer to—bodysuits with spangled parts in all the right places.) Like a cross between modern day June Taylor Dancers and synchronized swimmers from an Esther Williams flick they brought a life and energy to this new art that had to be seen to be believed. And even then you couldn't believe your eyes. It seemed only moments and they were through, the five joining in the middle like a human star, one arm upraised in the very center as the lights slowly dimmed and the music faded.

I turned to Ducky, still astonished. "I don't even remember this hotel being here!"

He laughed and took my elbow, guiding me toward the crosswalk; another piece of music was starting behind us and I could hear people gasping, "Ooh!" and "Wow!"—the dancers were apparently continuing the show. "Millennia is a new hotel, they only completed it this spring. I brought Mother to see _Don_ _Giovanni_—" I nodded; I'm not a big opera fan, it had taken some verbal tap dancing to demand that she go with Ducky as originally planned. "When we left, they were just gearing up for the grand opening. The young ladies are from one of the music and arts magnet schools—there's about thirty in all in the group."

"They're incredible!"

"Oh, we stayed for ages. They had taiko drummers, the water dancers—they did all sorts of routines, _Minuet in G_, music from _Cosmos_, oh, that was particularly lovely… and… oh, what is that song, I know the singing group is Queen—"

"_Bohemian Rhapsody_?" He shook his head. "_Death on Two Legs_? _Thirty-nine_?" He stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and looked at me blankly. "Uh…" I nudged him back to walking.

He snapped his fingers. "_Killer Queen_." He laughed. "I had to 'sing' it in my mind."

"My absolute favorite song of theirs. Now I wish I had come with you."

"They did a number of their songs. Something I remember from a science fiction show—"

"_Flash Gordon_?" I gasped. "I love that movie!"

"No, no—it took place partly in Scotland—"

"_Highlander_?"

"Yes that's—" He nodded. "That's it, _Who Wants to Live Forever_."

"Ohhhh…" I sighed. "I wish I had seen that."

"Well—" Safely on the other side of the street he tucked my hand back in the crook of his elbow and we sauntered toward the Center. "They have a 'show' every night and whenever there's a matinee. It's quite different in the daytime. That night they also had a wonderful buffet to showcase their restaurant. Nobody asked Mother for an invitation—"

I've seen her in her opera finery; she looks absolutely regal. "Of course not. She looks like old DC society. Nobody would _think_ to stop her."

"By the time I found her again, she had eaten her weight in crème brûlée, chocolate mousse and trifle."

"That'll teach you to turn your back." I clutched his arm. "Oh, Ducky! _Phantom_!" I laughed at the huge sandwich board signs near the entrance. They showed a pigtailed miss (who reminded me of our beloved Abby) hugging an open book to her chest, eyes wide and mouth open. The caption below her picture read, _I never knew it was a BOOK!_ "That's like an old cartoon from the Filkharmonics—"

"Ducky? Ducky Mallard?"

We stopped and looked around for the cheerful, twangy voice. "Oh, good heav—Elmo!" (_Elmo_? Are you joking?) "Elmo Poke!" (Well, shut my mouth and call me Spanky.) "What brings you to Washington?"

Elmo Poke is one long drink of water, barely contained in his suit with wrists and ankles sticking out all over. "Me and the wife came to visit her sister and the kids—we were gonna be here for the cherry blossoms in the spring—" he rolled his eyes. "But, y'know how it gets, couldn't get away, so we come here for the summer. Sis—Judy Leigh—is a librarian, she told us about this show, we figured, heck, it's goin' to a good cause and, heck, we never seen this, so, heck, here we are!"

"Here you are," Ducky laughed. Heck.

"Oh, Ducky—honey, this is Ducky, you heard me tell on him all these years? Now you get to meet him! Ducky, this here is my wife—" (Loretta? Cindy Lou? Bobbie Jo?) "Josette."

"Enchanté." Ducky bowed over her hand.

"Oh, I'm not French, I'm originally from California," she laughed. "Everyone calls me Josie." She looked amused. "My mother was a huge _Dark_ _Shadows_ fan."

I couldn't help laughing with her. _I_ had been a huge _Dark Shadows_ fan, too.

Elmo turned in my direction. "Well, my gosh! Ducky! You never told me you were married!"

For a split second it looked like Ducky was actually glaring at Elmo. It was gone in a flash—if it had ever been there in the first place—and he and I stumbled over each other in the oh-boyfriend-and-girlfriend-is-too-juvenile-lovers-is-too-much-information-partner-is-so-ambiguous-significant-other-is-just-stupid shuffle. "We're, ah, going steady," I finally said, trying for a humorous approach.

It worked. "Now, that's a cute way to handle that," Josie said with a grin. "I'll pass that on to my sister, she's not quite engaged to this nice young man she started seeing last year, she does the same 'er, um' stumble when they're being introduced."

We chatted a bit more, then headed toward the lobby. "Elmo? Elmo Poke? Don't tell me—he was in your class at Edinburgh?"

He gave me a friendly glower. "He's the coroner in Witchita. I've known him for years."

"Ah."

"Going steady?" He quirked an eyebrow.

"Hey, it beats 'boyfriend' and girlfriend.'" I gave him a vapid, teenybopper look and head bounce.

"True." He pursed his lips. "Do I need to look up my class ring?"

"You betcha."

/ / /

I just love going to the theatre. And _Phantom_ was fabulous. Marni Raab played Christine (she had a nice list of _Phantom_ credits since it opened on Broadway, even though I'd never heard of her), John Cudia was perfect as the Phantom and—well, I was with Ducky so the entire evening was wonderful.

While we were waiting for the light to change, I checked my phone for messages. "Uh-oh, change of plans for tomorrow."

Ducky looked up sharply. "What happened? Is everyone all right?"

"Oh, yeah, it's not our crew. They had a water pipe break this evening at the park; the whole street is blocked off. Lily is suggesting we have our picnic in the park at home."

"I have no objections."

We stood in front of the fountain for at least twenty minutes, leaving as the last notes of _Can You Feel the Love Tonight_ morphed into something I didn't recognize. Can I feel the love tonight? I glanced up at Ducky as we slowly strolled back to the car. Yes. Very much so.

I tried to keep the nagging thought out of my head, but every so often it would pop up into my conscious thoughts. The young girl celebrating her birthday. Christine visiting her father's grave. Ducky's comment as we left the fountain, saying that the parents of those young ladies had much to be proud of.

I kept looking for the right time. I kept not finding it. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough.

It was late enough that C'est Bonne was fairly empty; only about 12 tables were filled, and everyone was hitting heavy on the desserts.

"I can't believe you've lived her all these years and you've never had a chocolate tower." My brother took me to dinner to celebrate when I bought Papyrus. He introduced me to a lot of the finer things in life: chocolate tower at C'est Bonne, science fiction conventions, tie-dye and Woodstock… Sigh. I owe him so much.

"It's far too much to have after one of their meals."

"Well… that's true. Unless you get a slice—which is nice, just not the same. It's meant to be a shared dessert." I smiled. "Or have the leftovers for breakfast."

He shuddered expressively. "What a dreadful idea."

"You are _so_ wrong. Okay, it's not as good the next day as it is here—but you get a nice cappuccino with it and it's a marvelous way to start the day."

"I don't know how you are as healthy as you are with how you eat," he grumbled.

"Good, clean living?" His skeptical glance turned into a very naughty one. "Good gene pool?" I amended, blushing. Gamma had lived to a ripe old 107 and died in her sleep watching _It Happened One Night_ at 2 a.m. Not a bad way to go.

"An _excellent_ gene pool." From his smile, he wasn't thinking about the same parts of that pool.

The waitress skittered back, looking absolutely mortified. "I do apologize… We had a huge crush this evening—I just discovered the tower for two is sold out. We do have one slice of the regular tower—"

"You get that, dear," Ducky encouraged. He scanned the dessert menu. "I'd be fine with the lavender cake." He smiled that roguish smile again. "We can… trade bites."

I turned to the waitress. "Could we get that to go?"

/ / /

We actually ate dessert back at my house. Can you believe it? I can't.

And it was the sexiest, naughtiest, slow burn sex-as-food scene since _Tom Jones_. (Next time I'm buying a box of Big Stick popsicles and making him really crazy.)

Ducky had tossed his jacket on the back of the couch and shucked his tie; I had kicked off my shoes, and both of us were curled up on the floor, next to the coffee table, exchanging bites and nibbles. (We were sharing the desserts, too.) Real interesting flavor combination in our kisses.

"Last bite." He held out the fork with bits of chocolate crepe, chocolate crème and a dab of chocolate ganache. I steadied his hand with mine and closed my mouth over the tines, very, very slowly sucking off the last of the dessert. I licked my lips, swiping off the last swirl of crème; Ducky licked his lips for a very different reason. Yea, _Tom Jones_. He pulled me close, kissing me hard, one hand combing through my hair. He gently pulled out the flowers and tossed them on the table, his kiss rough and hungry in comparison. A light _tink_ as a hairstick joined the flowers and my hair half fell down. A second _tink_ and my hair tumbled completely free. I love it when he plays with my hair—it's _so_ arousing. Not that I needed any encouragement, mind you. He continued to toy with my hair, combing his fingers through it, rubbing my head (I'm so glad I didn't give in to the humidity and cut it!), all the while kissing me over and over… Suddenly he stopped and pulled back slightly. I looked at him, puzzled. His eyes had a kind of nervous glitter I'd never seen before. "Hmm. What's this." He pulled his hand from my hair and I almost laughed. He's a fan of sleight of hand tricks, forever pulling coins and pens and even keys 'out of my ear.' He brought his hand forward.

It was a ring.

I stared at it for a long moment. It was an opal, like his cufflinks. _It's not a diamond. He knows I don't like diamonds._ Gold setting. The marquise cut stone was flanked by two deep purple stones (_amethyst_, a corner of my mind said) and the star fire in the dark, colorful opal was hypnotizing, to say the least. I continued to stare at it. "Ducky…?" I finally managed to whisper.

After what seemed like forever he said simply, "Will you marry me?"

Do you _really_ have to ask what my answer was?

/ / /

"I have _never_ been so nervous in my life."

"Never?" I gasped in mock shock.

"_Never_," Ducky repeated solemnly. "Oh, I had all sorts of things planned, great, long speeches, declarations of undying love…"

I propped my elbow on the bed and leaned my head on my hand. (It's not that hard to do on a waterbed. But it does take practice.) "So what happened?

"Stage fright, I presume. At first I was going to propose during dinner. But it was so noisy and crowded. And then I started to worry, 'What if she says no?'"

I sat up and crossed my legs. "You really were worried I might say no?"

"Well—yes. And no. I thought, well, I was _fairly_ sure our thoughts were going along the same path. But I was concerned that asking you in such a public place might embarrass you—"

"Well… it wasn't as public as, say, center ice at a Capitals game. _That_ I would have run away and probably hollered for a while—then said yes."

"I'd rather avoid the 'hollering' if you don't mind."

"Agreed."

"If it hadn't been so crowded in front of the Millennium—and then Elmo! Dear heavens, 'is this your wife?' I wanted to flatten him."

"I thought you looked pissed off!"

"Decidedly so."

"That explains why." I leaned over and kissed him. "Can't say that I blame you."

"Then I thought, 'Now is the perfect time, we're all alone, it's quiet, it's romantic—' and I couldn't think of what I wanted to say."

"Well, the fact that you were kissing me to the point of oxygen deprivation made conversation… difficult." He grinned and I kissed him again. "Y'know, 'will you marry me?' was… just perfect."

He pulled me close and held me tight. I rubbed my cheek against his chest and sighed, enjoying the steady beat of his heart. "Now for the hard part."

I chewed my lip. "Telling your mother?"

"No. In which house shall we reside?"

I grinned and dragged my fingertip across his chest, making him shiver. "Let's… discuss that later."

/ / / / /

Have you ever had one of those absurd fights where you look at your co-combatant and wonder 1) why the hell are we fighting, period, and 2) why am _I_ on _this_ side of the argument and _you're_ on _that_ side?

We ended breakfast by agreeing to disagree. For the moment.

(Come on. Both houses are paid for. His is a five-bedroom house (okay, three are filled with Mother's junk and she sleeps in the sitting room—but, still, the floor plan shows five bedrooms), over a hundred years old and has much better property value. Mine is a nice enough 60's split-level with three bedrooms and heating that needs to be replaced. He likes the fact that there are almost no stairs in my place; I'd kill for his landscaping. "I know! Let's sell them both and buy a condo!" When he hit sarcasm, I knew it was time to call it quits.)

Lily called me while we were doing the last part of the cleanup. "Help!"

Short and to the point. "What's wrong?"

"What did you fix for Grandma's birthday dinner?"

"Spaghetti." It had been one hell of a mess, but she loved it. "Why?"

"Since we're not packing lunch, she asked if we could have what you fixed for her birthday. She couldn't remember what it was—she just remembered she liked it."

"Tell her I'll make it next weekend. We're going to pick up picnic doings on the way home, we're doing the lazy man's lunch—meats and cheeses and rolls and stuff. Make your own sandwiches and pile on the salads. Ice cream sundaes for dessert."

"Charlie and Grandma are making limeade and lemonade in the kitchen. That will go nicely."

I get such a hoot over everyone calling Victoria 'Grandma.' Not even 'Grandmother.' And I have to say, having 'the girls' around does her a lot of good. "Hide the vodka. She likes to make screwdrivers with pink lemonade."

There was a long silence. "My." Another long pause. "Y'know—that actually sounds good."

"Yeah, it does."

"Evvie! Add pink lemonade to the list! We need anything else?" she finished in more normal tones to me.

"Only if there's weird sh—stuff you want to add to your sundaes. We have quite the stash already."

"Nutella and marshmallow cream. I know, it's gagging. Charlie loves it."

"I'll bet Victoria adds those to her banana split next time." At Ducky's look of interest I rattled off the ingredients. He shuddered and held up his hands as though warding off a great evil. Not far off. Her banana splits were becoming something akin to Napalm.

We decided to take both cars. We needed the room in my van for all the food, and Ducky needed to leave for work at some unholy hour of the morning the next day. I, on the other hand, would have a leisurely breakfast with my mother-in-law-to-be. (And Nurse Keithley. Oh, joy, oh, rapture.)

When I pulled into the circular drive it looked like we were hosting a used car sale. I recognized Evelyn's LADY EVY license plate and was pretty sure the tan Volvo was Lily's (or had been her father's, anyway). But there was a third car, one I didn't recognize—an old, _old_ station wagon (like the kind all my Girl Scout leaders drove) that was neatly blocking the garage. Whoever they were, they had about twenty minutes before Ducky would come toodling up. I squeezed past the mystery car and nudged the nose of my van to the back bumper of Ev's Saturn. Hope she already did all the shopping.

She had. She, Lily, Charlie and Victoria were playing some sort of game in the 'salon' while a fifth person watched from a chair near Victoria. "Come join us, it's easy!" Ev called.

"After groceries. Would the owner of a sort of robin's egg blue station wagon—"

"That would be me." A hand waved from beside Victoria. The voice was female, that's all I caught.

"—please move your vehicle, you are parked in a no-parking zone," I teased.

"Whoops!"

"I'll help with the groceries!" Charlie sprang up in concert with the stranger and streaked out the door.

Lily pointed to the remaining players. "Hold that thought and don't cheat." She grabbed the bags in passing. "Much more?"

"Charlie and I can get it." Charlie was plainly itching to tell me something.

The usually sedate, reserved young lady was literally jumping up and down on the porch. "She re_signed_! She _gave_ _notice_! She vacated her position, abandoned her post, _is_ _no more_, she is _gone_, she quit, she _quit_, she _**quit**__!_"

"Who? What?"

"Nurse Ratched," she hissed in triumph.

My hope was that she knew the name from overhearing it and picking up the inference—not from reading or watching _Cuckoo's Nest._ "Wait—you mean, you mean Nurse Keithley?" She nodded. "Quit?"

She all but skipped to the back of the van. "Yes! Farewell and good riddance to that mealy-mouthed, mewling, Friday-faced creature!"

"Okay, okay." I sat in the open back door of the van and patted the carpeting. "Spill it, Lefty. Give me the straight dope." Charlie scooched up and sat next to me, legs dangling.

"About what, specifically?"

"You really are a forty year old midget, aren't you? She looked at me blankly. "Next time they rerun _The Partridge Family_—watch it, okay?" She nodded, still looking uncertain. "Okay. I'm not going to miss Nurse Keithley, but what got her in your black books?"

She was silent for a long moment. Just as I was about to verbally prod her, she said, "She wanted Grandma to move into a home." Her voice was low and hard.

"Go on."

"Grandma has been… concerned. Worried. That if she stays here, you and Uncle Ducky won't ever get married." I shifted my position, putting my left hand behind us and out of sight. "Cruella never brought the subject up—not that I could hear, anyway. But when the topic was presented, she would point out that it would be fiscally responsible, it would lessen the burden for Uncle Ducky, make things easier for you—"

"That nasty little—"

"And Friday—" She turned away slightly. "I accompanied Uncle Ducky to Frazier's to select a new refrigerator," she said stiffly. "Grandma wanted me to stay, but—_she_ said, 'I am not a babysitter.'" Her head dropped down. "I know it will cause Uncle Ducky problems, getting a new nurse accustomed to Grandma, and I'm so sorry to have caused him grief—"

"Hey!" I said sharply. "You knock that off right now." She looked up in surprise. "I'm pretty sure there's more to this than meets the eye—but I'm also pretty sure you aren't the center of this storm. Don't let her turn you into a scapegoat. Got it?" She still looked doubtful. I cupped her chin in my hand. "Listen, kiddo. You are one of the best things that's happened to this house. Even if Uncle Ducky and I couldn't stand to be near you," I said melodramatically, making her laugh, "Grandma adores you. Yeah, there are a hundred ways she drives me batsh—uh, nuts, drives me nuts. But there are a hundred ways I love her to death. And, frankly, any nurse worth her salt would look at the good that you bring to the table and put up with 'being a babysitter,'" I said with an eye roll thrown in for good measure.

"That's what the new nurse assured Grandma." She smiled faintly. "Grandma said, 'If you object to my granddaughter being here, you'd best leave now!' Mrs. Bailey looked at Grandma, then said, 'She's not a youngling, why would I object? More to the point, if you like her being around, 'twill make my job that much easier.'"

I liked her already. "Smart lady."

She hopped down and gathered a shopping bag into each hand. "And she was ever so vexed to find Grandma only has pin-money."

"Wait—what?" She was already rocketing toward the house. "Charlie! Imp! What—" She was well out of earshot. Sighing, I grabbed the last bags and slammed the back doors shut. Pin-money? What did she mean, and why would 'she' (Nurse Keithley/Ratched/Mengele/de Vil, I assumed) be vexed about it? Interesting. Ver-r-r-ry interesting, to quote Arte Johnson.

There were shrieks from the living room/salon/parlor when I passed by; Charlie and Lily had returned and the game was in full swing again (whatever it was). I plopped my bags on the kitchen counter and started organizing our lunchtime feast. There were several pitchers of drinks on the table—the pink lemonade looked too inviting to pass up. (I was right. It was good.) As I arranged slices of meats and cheeses on the turkey platter, there was a sudden clamor down the hall—laughter, conversation, dogs yapping and, through it all, Ducky's sweet tenor voice. He had made excellent time.

Moments later he came into the kitchen, talking animatedly with an older woman with hair so snowy white it was blinding; clearly the station wagon owner I had barely glimpsed earlier. He broke off in mid-sentence. "Darling!" He still looked stunned. "It seems Miss Keithley—" He held out his hands almost helplessly.

"Bailed," I supplied. I caught his eye and flicked an eyebrow; he cocked his head ever so slightly. I touched my wrist and dove my hand over the side a fraction of an inch. Is it sign language? I dunno. I'll ask Abby (if I remember). But I'm sure Ducky understood my version of 'later.'

"This is Mrs. Bailey—"

"Suzy," she corrected with an easy grin.

"Cassandra Talmadge. Sandy. Or Cass, or whatever you like. I'm easy." I shook her outstretched hand; she had a firm, no-nonsense grip. "I—hang out here a lot," I added, thankful that Ducky is far too much a gentleman to grab my last comment and run with it. Not in front of a new acquaintance, anyway.

"I just wanted to stop by, introduce myself. So it's not such a shock tomorrow morning. The agency called me this morning—I'm looking forward to working with someone a little closer to my age," she said. Hmm. I had her in her early-sixties; maybe she had a couple of years to be added.

"Would you like to stay, join us for lunch?" Ducky offered.

"Heavens, no, this is your family day. And my youngest grandson has a soccer game this afternoon. Now, tomorrow—your mother said she'd like to go to Home Depot for… a magnolia tree."

First a greenhouse, now a magnolia tree. What next? Ducky exchanged a glance with me, amused. "That would be fine. She'd enjoy going out. But—ah—Mother…"

"Short leash?" Mrs. Bailey suggested.

"Yes," he and I said in unison.

"Very," I added, remembering a couple of our trips.

"I'll wear my sneakers." She gave me a wink. "See you all bright and early tomorrow!"

/ / /

"I like her," Charlie said firmly. "She plays a wicked game of Quiddler."

"Donald! Had you met Mrs. Bailey? She was in the Navy, too."

"I'm not _in_ the Navy," he said patiently. "I—no, no, I never met her before today."

Victoria looked confused. "Are you certain? She _is_ a nurse and she _is_ in the Navy."

_Is_ a nurse. _Was_ in the Navy. While we assembled sandwiches in the kitchen and moved full plates of food to the yard, Charlie gave us the lowdown on the new nurse-companion. Former Navy, served during the Korean conflict (ha!—she _is_ older than I thought), three tours in Viet Nam and two in Desert Storm. They wouldn't let her come out of retirement to go to Iraq, so she volunteers at Walter Reed and Bethesda. _And_ works as a nurse-companion. _And_ helps out at a senior daycare center teaching crafts. ("We've found the geriatric Mary Poppins," Ducky muttered in passing.) In her half-hour visit before we got home, she had scored high points with the youngest member of the extended family, Lily and Ev seemed suitably impressed, and Victoria had been satisfied on several key elements. Namely, Mrs. Bailey liked the idea of Charlie hanging around the house; she was happy to drive hither and yon and even go to the movies; and she said the dogs needed a walk as much as anyone else and was more than willing to play dog wrangler on their "constitutionals." Nurse Keithley faded quickly into the mists of yesterday.

Charlie had fears that the dogs were becoming "portly" (of course they were, Victoria snuck food off her plates for them at every meal) and might suddenly die en masse and leave Grandma "distraught." So she had scared up a mini Frisbee type toy and taught Victoria how to fling it a few feet away. They were both profoundly disappointed that all four Corgis looked at each other in clear confusion, then cocked their heads at their tormentors, undoubtedly wondering why they were expected to run after something that was plainly not food.

"I guess the walks with Grandma will have to suffice for now. Perhaps I'll bring Shelby for a visit. Maybe she can encourage them." Charlie was nonplussed by the dogs' lack of enthusiasm.

"Border Collie. Lives next door," Evvie explained.

"Would you like more pink lemonade, Victoria?" I pushed myself off the ground, my own empty cup in hand.

"Oh, Cassandra, that would be lovely." She grasped my hand. "Could you put just a _drop_ of vodka in it?" she whispered.

"We'll see." I took her empty plate with me and returned with a fresh glassful (minus the vodka). "Here ya go."

"Will you ever call me Mother?" she asked wistfully, taking the glass from my hand.

"I—I didn't know you wanted me to," I stammered. "Sure. I can. If you'd like." I plopped back on the blanket.

"I simply thought that since you and Donald are getting married—"

My head whipped around. "You said not—"

"I didn't! I never!" he gasped.

"Married?"

"We've been waiting!"

"Oh, my god, when?"

"What?"

"I didn't say anything!"

"What happened to 'tell together?'"

"Huzzah!" (Charlie was doing cartwheels.)

"I knew it, I knew it!"

"How long?"

"When?"

"Sandy, I give you my oath—"

"Donald!" We all shut up. Victoria's eyes were narrowed. "You _did_ ask her to marry you, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course I—" He looked astonished. "How on earth did you—"

She waved away his protestations. "You were a nervous wreck all week. Only a fool couldn't tell."

Hmm. I think I was just insulted.

"Are you really engaged to Uncle Ducky? Finally?" Charlie draped her arms about my neck and whispered in my ear.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say 'finally,'" I grumbled. "Makes it sound like I've been waiting by the side of a tiger pit, hoping to catch him unawares. But—yep." I showed her the ring on my left hand. "For real."

"Oh, that's gorgeous. Did you know, some indigenous tribes think opals have magical properties because of the way they shift colors?"

I was oddly comforted by the fact that she had to slow down while pronouncing 'indigenous.' "I'm not surprised." No wonder I love this kid. It's like hanging around Ducky—if he were a prepubescent female.

"Grandma says—" She put her lips almost inside my ear. "Grandma says you're enceinte."

"What, she's suddenly afraid of the word 'pregnant?'" I sighed heavily. "Honey, Grandma lives in la-la land." I kept my voice low.

"I rather doubted it. Mommy and Mommy would have said something." She kissed my cheek. "But I'm so very glad for you and Uncle Ducky." She disentangled herself and pelted over to 'Uncle Ducky.'

He dealt with the good-natured ribbing from Evelyn and Lily, deflected Victoria's repeated questions about possible dates and generally basked in the glow of extended family love.

"Abby will go bananas," I predicted. I was flopped on one of the blankets on the lawn, face down, head pillowed on my arms.

"Most assuredly." He was at a 90-degree angle, lounging on his back, hands folded on his stomach. "Prepare yourself for an onslaught of telephone calls tomorrow."

I don't remember falling asleep. But I do remember waking up—cold wet dog nose stuck in your ear tends to wake you up pretty quick—and it was late in the afternoon. "Getoudda here," I muttered. Isabeau made a small 'yarf' noise, sniffed my nose for good measure and walked away. I pushed my way off the ground. "Ow!"

"Are you all right?" Ducky's voice came from behind me.

"It's just from having my neck twisted like that for too long, I guess." I stood up and stretched. "_Ow_!"

"Don't move." He padded up behind me and gently grasped my shoulders. "Let's—oh, my."

"What, what?"

"Well, I've seen much worse, but you, my dear, are the proud owner of a sunburn." He gently touched my neck and shoulder blades. "All along here."

"Crap. I haven't done that in ages."

"It's not that bad," he said comfortingly. "I'll hop to the store and pick up some aloe vera gel after we get the kitchen put back to rights."

"I'd appreciate it." I looked around—cautiously. "Where is everyone else?"

He laughed. "Back inside, playing gin rummy. You've been asleep for quite a while. So was I, which engendered a couple of lightly off-color comments from Evelyn about our sleeping together in public."

"Figures."

"You just looked so peaceful, we couldn't bear to awaken you. The picnic detritus was magically cleared while we slept. Izzy and I just came out to make sure you hadn't run away from home."

"I appreciate the nap—despite the sunburn. Especially since the cleanup fairies seem to have been in full swing." I clapped my hands. "I do believe in fairies, I do believe in fairies…"

He shook out the blanket and draped it over his arm. He wasn't kidding; the cleanup fairies had done a good job. The blanket was the last thing remaining. The kitchen was in good shape, too—the food was all put away and the dishwasher was sloshing away.

"They're hired."

"We saved you ice cream." He slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me back against him, swaying lightly to and fro. "And hot fudge and whipped cream and cherries," he added, putting a light burr to the last word. "And… pineapple topping and lemon curd and Nutella," he continued, chuckling.

"Trying to make me toss my cookies?"

"The girls and I left Charlotte and Mother to their own devices. It was quite… astonishing."

"Yeah, that would be a word for it." I sighed, enjoying the light rocking. "Maybe later. I'm still stuffed."

"You're spending the night, yes?"

"Of course I am. It's Sunday night. Plus I promised to make waffles tomorrow."

"Aw." I could hear the pout. "You've never made waffles for me."

"I sure have." I carefully turned around and slid my arms around him. "Just not recently. I'm kissing up to my mother-in-law. And besides—" I grinned. "I do a lotta things for you that I don't do for anybody else."

He echoed my grin. "True enough. And you don't need to worry about 'kissing up' to Mother. She adores you." He bumped our foreheads together. "So does her son."

"That's a good thing, since he asked me to marry him."

"A very good thing." He glanced at the clock. "Before it gets too late, I'm going to pop over to the druggist's and get that aloe gel. Do you need anything else while I'm there?"

"No. Yes." He patiently waited for clarification. "Maybe some of that sports cream for sore muscles or something?" He looked at me quizzically. "It's just that muscle I pulled when we cleared out Pippa's store. It's still kind of achy." I batted my eyes to distract the look of concern. "And I sure used a lot of muscles last night, too."

He only gave me a flicker of a smile. "Yes, but… this has been going on for over a week. Two, come to think of it. Have you seen a doctor?" He sighed. "That's not what I meant."

My very dirty look changed to one of innocence. "Whatever do you mean?" He continued to stare and I nodded a 'yeah, yeah' nod. "No, I haven't seen a doctor. It's not necessary."

"May I see your medical degree?" he asked pleasantly. "Sandy—you could have a small hernia. You don't want to ignore this."

"It's been getting better. Just slowly." Okay, I lied, I lied. I didn't want him fussing over me. Well—not for that, anyway. "I promise, if it's not all better by the end of the week, I'll call for an appointment."

"Call tomorrow. It will probably take until the end of the week to _get_ an appointment."

I sighed heavily. "Yes, dear," I said dolefully.

"Love, honor and obey. I like that." I swatted his tush as he walked away. (It was just too tempting.) "Play nicely or I won't get either one."

"Play nicely and I'll let you rub them both on my bod," I leered.

"I'll be back. Quickly."

The Fantastic Four, as I had dubbed them, were winding down the last round of gin rummy when I joined them. Victoria was ahead—far ahead. She may occasionally think that Carter is still President but the lady kicks ass when it comes to card games. Dominoes, too. One last pass and: "Gin!"

"Thank god we aren't playing for money," Ev grumbled good-naturedly.

Victoria looked surprised. "We aren't?"

"We could be," Lily said smoothly. "Keep tally for next week. Okay, gather your junk," she said to Charlie.

One of the rare signs she's a real kid and not a genetics experiment let loose on the unsuspecting world: the gathered brow, the slightly trembling lip. "Must we leave?" (Okay, maybe a real kid would have said, "I don't wanna.")

"Yes, we must," Lily said, not breaking stride as she cleaned up the cards and such. Victoria looked like she would cry, too. "We'll be back on Tuesday. I promise," she said, giving the elder child a kiss on the cheek. "And I know the two of you will be online for ages tonight _and_ tomorrow night, so it's not like you're going into exile."

Charlie hugged Victoria like she _was_ going into exile. "I promise, I'll IM you just as soon as I get home. I mean, after dinner," she amended. At Victoria's almost frightened look, she said carefully, "IM. Instant Messaging. When we talk on the computer."

"Oh!" Her face cleared. "The little letter screen."

"That's the one." She hugged her again and kissed her at least a dozen times on each cheek. "I love you, Grandma."

"Oh…" Victoria's eyes were closed and her smile could have lit up the National Mall. "I love you, my little angel."

I smiled; Charlie's nickname is "Imp" for a pretty good reason. But she could hit the button to start global thermonuclear warfare and say, 'Oops, my finger slipped' and Victoria would forgive and defend her until the planet blew up. (Just like when Gamma defended me regarding the Easter basket flambé that took out my dressing table. And the dresser. And the closet door.)

"When she goes off to camp, it's going to be like she's going off to war," Evvie said as I helped them carry things to Lily's car.

"Camp?" This was the first I'd heard.

"Computer camp. Last two weeks of August. At least they'll be able to e-mail and IM while she's gone."

"Ooh. Sundays are going to be hard to deal with. I'll have to think of some field trips or something."

"Ev and I can help," Lily volunteered. "How late are you going to be at the store?" she asked Ev.

"Eleven? Maybe?"

"Make sure to lock up when you come in." She gave Ev a quick kiss. "Drive safe."

"Oof!" Charlie threw her arms around Evvie's neck and hung on for what I call a monkey hug. "Be good, don't stay up too late, you have class in the morning," Ev managed around the dead weight on her spine.

"I have class all the time," Charlie said saucily.

"That, you do. But you know what I mean. And you don't want to be tardy."

"Don't I?"

"Charrrrrlie—" Evelyn drew out warningly.

"Mommm—" Charlie returned in the same tone.

"You. Bee. Hayve," she said firmly, breaking the syllables with head bumps.

"If I must," Charlie sighed. She gave Evelyn a kiss on the cheek. "Good-night, Mommy Ev." She leaned over, probably dislocating Ev's shoulder in the process. "Good night, Aunt Sandy." I got a matching smooch.

"G'night, Imp." I rubbed noses with her and she giggled. "See you Tuesday."

We waved as they pulled out of the drive. "Whatcha working on?"

"Tagging. Got a request from one of the profs at Georgetown—he doesn't know precisely what he _wants_, just what he _doesn't_. He has a list of requirements, and he's paying a search fee, so I'm going to cherry pick a couple of boxes and drive them over tomorrow morning."

"Search fees, good," I grunted like a caveman. Cavewoman.

"_Very_ good." She waggled the ring finger of my left hand. "In case you missed it earlier—congrats, felicitations, hot damn and all that jazz. You guys make a great couple." She glanced back at the house. "A great family."

"And, thanks to you guys, we have an instant grandkid. Three, if you want to include the older kids."

"Very funny."

"Hey, you're only sixteen years younger than I am. Nowadays—"

"Don't even go there. Lily is freaking out over the fact that the kid across the street—and I do mean kid—is pregnant. She's not quite fifteen. Not quite."

I winced. "Ouch."

"Her sister started the family trend, but she waited until she was eighteen to get knocked up."

"You and Lily have your job cut out for you."

"It won't be that bad, actually," she admitted, sliding into the driver's seat. "Charlie knows where she wants to go and what she wants to do, and that being a teen mother is not the way to get there. If we can keep that going once the hormones kick in…" She held up crossed fingers.

I held up two sets of my own crossed digits. "We're here to help."

"Thanks." She blew me a goodbye kiss and cranked the engine. "Laters!"

"Laters!" I called as she swung around the curve of the drive.

Victoria was sitting where we had left her, arm draped gracefully over the arm of the sofa, staring thoughtfully off into space. "So." I sat next to her, one leg curled underneath me. "You're going shopping for a magnolia tree tomorrow?"

"Am I?" she asked in gentle confusion.

"That's what Mrs. Bailey said. Of course, it's not written in stone…"

"Oh. Then… I suppose I am." She continued to stare at the drapes.

"Victoria…?" I touched her shoulder and she turned toward me. "Mother?"

She reached up and laid her hand on mine. "I am so very glad for you and Donald." She smiled sweetly. "I've been so worried that he'd be all alone."

_No. Oh, no. Don't you dare do this with Ducky gone._ "He's not all alone." I smiled brightly. "He has _both_ of us."

The last year Aunt Mina was alive, she was totally potty. But that last day, right before she died, she was beyond lucid. She remembered the long-ago past that she had held tight to all along, the middle years, and the recent times that had been so elusive. She knew everyone—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, every last name that had befuddled her for the last decade and a half.

She died the next day.

The doctor said that's quite common, the brain making a sort of last hurrah for those lest behind.

And Victoria had that same calm, lucid air about her.

"And he's not going to be alone. Not for a long, long time," I babbled.

She tipped her head to the side, looking like one of her lap dogs. "You really don't want to—to have a baby?"

_Goddammit, why now, of all times, does she have to have all her marbles in order? Ducky, could you please teleport home?_ "It's not that I don't _want_ to," I said slowly. "But… I just hit fifty-one. Donald has another ten years or so on that." I sighed. "I know you want grandchildren, and I love Donald and I know he'd be a great father, but—would it really be fair to have a baby now? Fair to the baby, I mean?"

She continued to stare at me, eyes sharp behind the clouds of age. "I suppose you are right." She gave a sad little sigh, as gentle as morning mist. "So I shall be grateful for my little Charlotte."

I know she was disappointed. But sometimes that's how the cards play. "She loves you beyond measure."

"And I, her." She looked around in confusion. "Where is Donald?"

"He ran off to the pharmacy for a couple of things. He'll be back soon."

"I think I shall take a nap until dinner. I am quite exhausted."

_**No!**_ I bit back a scream. What a stupid idea—forcing her to stay awake wouldn't keep her from dying; if it was her time, it was her time. (What was I going to do, make her stay awake for ten years?) "I can understand. Sundays are pretty crazy around here, now."

She smiled delightedly. "But so wonderful."

"Would you like anything in particular for dinner?" I was desperate to make things happy for her—short of popping out kid after kid.

"Lamb chops," she said with a dreamy sigh. "I just _love_ your lamb chops."

"You've got it." I gave her a kiss as she gathered her cane. "Pleasant dreams."

As soon as she was headed for the doorway all four dogs followed her. They're always underfoot with Ducky or with me (and especially with Charlie), but with Victoria they walk behind or to the side, leaving about a two-foot protective wake. They looked so pretty, their coats shimmering and the fur on their legs looking like pantaloons.

Pantaloons.

Pants.

_Ack!_

_**Laundry!**_

Even with Nurse Keithley helping out, there was always laundry to do Sunday night. Now, with her gone, I'd be scrambling to stay caught up. I scrambled—literally. I ran upstairs for the hamper, dashed back downstairs, grabbed the little hamper from Victoria's bathroom (it was comforting to hear the cacophony of snores, four canine and one homo sapiens), hustled down to the basement and tossed the first load in the wash. Back upstairs for a swing through the kitchen; put away dishes hot out of the dishwasher and pull chops from the freezer to thaw. Run back upstairs. Change the linens and replace all the bath towels. Kick laundry downstairs (I was already starting to poop out). Kick laundry down the hall and down the basement steps. Sit on top step and take a breather. Crap, I'm out of shape.

A knock at the door made me jump up in surprise. A scrabbling of claws and some excited yaps joined in and I almost broke my neck getting to the door before the noise woke up Victoria. "You. And you." I snapped my fingers at Cooper and Contessa, who were bouncing from wall to wall like furry pinballs. "Sit!" They met up by the front door and sat, watching me patiently. "Thank you." I opened the left side door. "Hello?"

Our visitor was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, baby faced with dark brown hair scraped back into a long braid. She wasn't as tall as Abby, but she was decidedly taller than I. "Is—is this the Mallard residence?"

"Yes. May I help you?"

"Mrs. …Mallard?"

Not yet. And that was still undecided—to me, Victoria would forever be 'Mrs. Mallard.' "She's resting."

"Oh." Her eyes were as dark as bittersweet chocolate—kind of like Sean Connery's. She didn't look like him otherwise—but she _did_ look vaguely familiar. And it wasn't just the 'could be cousins' resemblance to Lily. "Is Dr.—um, Dr. Mallard? Available, I mean?"

"I'm sorry, he just stepped out. May I help you?"

"Oh." She looked profoundly disappointed. "No. No—thank you."

"I don't know when he'll be back—but you're welcome to wait—"

She gasped slightly and took a step back. "Oh, no, no. Thank you. I'll call later. Thank you." She spun away and scampered down the stairs.

"Wait! May I—wait!" I hurried after her. "Could I tell him who called?"

She didn't hear me. Or didn't want to answer. She fumbled with the door to her car but finally got it open.

"Hello? Hey—"

I was close, but she was faster than I was. Her silver car quickly took the far curve of the drive, the setting sun glinting glaringly off the decal on the back window.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my thoughts crashing in a domino cascade.

Silver Toyota.

Refraction decal of a winged horse.

Big brown eyes peering up from under a floppy hat.

No hat this time. But those eyes were the same, and the shy smile. It was the young woman Victoria and I had run into at the market a few weeks ago.

It wasn't the look _of_ her face that struck me so hard. It was the look _on_ her face. The hopeful, wanting, searching need, the face of a little girl looking for Daddy.

_Fran_.

* * *

-3-


	4. Chapter 4:  Happens

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Happens**

* * *

I stumbled backward and sat on the brick steps. _Holy shit_. My hands started to shake; I wrapped my arms around my knees and held on tight.

Fran.

She had found her father.

She had found him—and I might lose him.

A heavy warm weight leaned against my side; I glanced over and found Isabeau looking up at me. "Hey, Izzy." My voice quavered. She put her front paws on my leg and reached up to snuffle my damp cheek. I scooped her up and hugged her, burying my face in her tangerine-scented silky fur. "Thank you." I managed to stand up while still holding her. "You're my favorite, you know that? Don't tell the others."

She stuck with me down to the basement to swap out the laundry then back up to the kitchen to start dinner. The lamb chops were defrosted enough to sear; there had to be something in the fridge that would make us all feel homey again. Make _me_ feel homey again.

A half-hour later I had a dish of chops baking in the oven next to a casserole of au gratin potatoes and above a bubbling apple-blackberry crumble. I don't remember doing any of it, but it must have been me—unless the dogs are more talented than they've been letting on.

_Where are you?_ Ducky had been gone for close to an hour and a half. I know he likes to shop at an independent pharmacy, a long-held family place that's a holdout from the good old days, but they're only 20 minutes away. My imagination was kicking into overdrive.

The kitchen extension rang and I reached to grab the receiver—and stopped myself just as I touched it. _All those hang-ups. Had that been Fran, screwing up the courage to find her father? _I slowly picked up the receiver. "Hello?" I asked hesitantly.

"Sandy!" I could barely hear Ducky's voice. Chaos was going on behind him.

"Ducky! Where are you? What's going on? Are you all right?"

"I'm quite all right. I'm actually in the middle of the accident field—"

"Accident!" I shrieked. "Are you hurt?"

"I just told you, I'm fine." His voice sounded just a hair irritated. "Someone was impatient to get home and ran the light at Herndon and Dranesville. Unfortunately, a recreational vehicle had already entered the intersection and was broad sided full force. Several of us had barely started to move and thus were able to stop in time—but a number of cars caused a pileup behind us as well, so I'm part of the filling in the sandwich." When he needs to, he can give a concise rundown of a situation. The noise around him made sense, now—sirens, yelling voices, more sirens.

"Is anyone hurt?"

"Regrettably, yes. I've been—assisting—until the paramedics arrived. This was the first opportunity I've had to call. They're still tending to the injured, getting them stabilized for transport, but I have no idea how long it will be until the debris is hauled off. Please—don't hold dinner for me," he finished.

"Are you sure? Mother is taking a nap, and we don't have anything that will be harmed in keeping warm. All I have to do is the asparagus, and that's last minute while the table is set."

He sighed, barely audible. "I shall rely on your judgment."

My judgment. Yeah, right.

I plodded around the house for forever. I added a bit more hot milk to the potatoes, wrapped all the dishes in foil and set the oven to 275. Laundry was carefully folded, hung and put away. I sorted through the magazines piled up in the rack by Ducky's chair, filing them in the appropriate slipcovers. I polished the piano, swept the back porch, rearranged the broom closet and alphabetized the freaking canned goods pantry. In short, I tried to hang on to the remnants of my sanity.

Every time I passed by her room, I peeked in on Victoria. She was fast asleep each time and snoring like a champ. The last pass I stood in the doorway, silently watching the woman who would be my mother-in-law. _What will she say? What will happen when she finds out she __**is**__ a grandmother, that Ducky is a father?_

_Well… at least Fran is old enough that I don't think I'll be the Evil Stepmother. I hope._

I curled up on the window seat near the front door, one of my favorite places in the house. I stared out at the far away street, my cheek resting on the glass. _Come home, Ducky. Please, come home._

Moments later, headlights grazed the hedges and the Morgan put-putted into the drive and then the garage. I'd like to think I willed him to be there a lá Chrestomanci in _Charmed Life_, but I rather doubt it.

"Oh, my god!"

"I'm not injured," he said quickly.

"Are—are you sure?"

He had plainly made an effort to pull himself together. His hair was mussed—but it had clearly looked worse before and had been hastily finger-combed into place. Both knees of his trousers were scraped, the left knee including a gaping tear. I gritted my teeth. _Great. His bad knee._ He was scruffy and rumpled and dirty and, oh, god, there was blood on his jacket and shirt. I must have looked pretty horrified—well, hell, I _felt_ pretty horrified—because he ducked over to the hall mirror and took a look. "Oh, dear." He gave me a rueful look. "I'm afraid it's beyond repair."

I forced a smiled. "And I really liked that jacket." I cupped his cheek and gave him a long, gentle kiss then rested my forehead against his. "I'm just so glad you aren't hurt."

"Nothing of too grave a nature. But if you don't mind, I'd like to freshen up before dinner."

_If I don't mind? Oh, Ducky._ "I'll start the asparagus in ten minutes. Will that be good?" I could hear noises across the hall that made me think Victoria was waking up.

"That will be fine." I bit my lip as he walked upstairs, clearly favoring his left leg. He was in for some TLC later on, for sure.

Victoria was up, and sitting on the side of her daybed. "Is Donald finally home?" she asked querulously. She's not the happiest camper when she first wakes up.

"Mm-hmm." I sat on the bed next to her and took her hand. "Donald is okay," I said slowly and clearly. "He was late because of a car accident, but he wasn't hurt. He's okay. But he was helping take care of people at the accident, and I think he might have fallen and banged up his knee, so he's a little tired and sore. But _he's_ _okay_."

She gave a dismissive snort. "He shouldn't drive so fast."

I sighed. Oh, well. "Would you like to help me finish getting dinner on?"

She smiled in delight. "Did you make spaghetti? I love your spaghetti."

"No—that's next weekend. You asked me to make lamb chops."

"You make lovely lamb chops, too." She didn't even bat an eyelash. She leaned close. "I'm so glad Donald is marrying a good cook," she whispered, even though we were alone. (What, she's keeping this a secret from the dogs?) "Some of the other women he's dated—" She shuddered expressively.

"So… you know a lot of the women Donald dated before?" I asked casually. _Sinking to a new low, Cassandra, pumping a senile old lady for clues._

"Oh, yes. Almost all of them."

Huh.

"But none could cook like you, dear."

"So, you, ah, lived with Donald in California, too?"

She knit her brow. "California?"

Hmm, maybe I was wrong. I thought Ducky had said she came over from England about a year before he moved here. "When you left England, where did you go?"

She looked at me as though I were daft. "The United States, dear."

Zing. Score one for the old broad. "True. But where did you live before you moved here? Before you moved to Virginia?"

She thought long and hard. Her face cleared. "St. Monica's Guild!"

Odd name—but if Louisiana can have parishes, why can't some other state have guilds? "Where is that?"

"At the church!"

Okay, that made sense. "Where was that?" I repeated.

"Oh, it was this charming city by the ocean. Donald and I would go to service, then out to breakfast every Sunday. St. Anne's is lovely, but I'm just too tired to go of late." (According to Ducky, 'of late' is only the past year.) "But I loved to go to St. Monica's meetings, we'd sew things for the fall bazaar…"

"And Donald's girlfriend went with you?"

"Oh, dear girl." She patted my hand. "You've no need to be jealous of his lady friends. Donald chose _you_!"

Oh, well. Can't say I didn't try—which is pathetic in and of itself. "Let's hop to the kitchen," I said with a small sigh. Just let it go. It will figure itself out, like water seeking level.

Hopefully without drowning all of us.

It fascinates me to see what is and isn't firmly attached to Victoria's memory. The longer Ducky and I dated, the better grasp she had on my name. Until she started hanging out at the store fairly regularly, she didn't remember I even _had_ a store from one week to the next. She doesn't always remember to turn the burner on to heat water for tea (which is better than not remembering to turn if _off_, I guess)—but without a pause, she picked up the first spear of asparagus and bent it to find the woody part, snapped it and went to the next spear, rinsed them all—then stood by the sink, uncertain. "Hot water is already on the stove, just pop it in," I said, as though there had been no hesitation in her steps. She smiled brightly and gently slid them into the boiling water, not splashing a drop.

A few minutes later I pulled the asparagus out, plopped it on a serving tray and added it to the dinner on the table, just as Ducky joined us. We frequently ate casually dressed (as in barely) at my place, but the most he would stoop to at home was slacks and a shirt. Despite a hot shower (I had heard the pipes squeak), he was still limping. I was going to break out the massage oil that night, definitely.

"Thank you, dearest," he murmured bussing my cheek as he held my chair. "This is so lovely to come home to… and the dinner looks wonderful, too."

"Smooth talker."

Victoria kept up her end of the conversation. And mine. And Ducky's. I was too tense to fumble for neutral talk, he was tired as hell—but Victoria was full of things Charlie had said, done, thought and breathed. God bless 'em both.

"—so very glad I didn't go there," she finished up. I gave a guilty start; I hadn't been paying attention to her ramblings through dinner, and here we were finishing dessert.

I wasn't alone. "Where was that, Mother?"

"That silly place she wanted me to go to." Her eyes narrowed. "The more I think about it, the more I'm sure of it." She nodded. "It was a hospital."

Something pinged in my memory. "You mean Nurse Keithley?"

She nodded again, then her gaze dropped to her empty plate. "I had hoped that having someone stay with me would mean I wouldn't have to go away." Her voice was small and almost inaudible.

Ducky looked like his heart was breaking. "It does, Mother."

"But she said—"

"I don't give a tinker's dam what she said." I got to her side before Ducky did and had her wrapped in a hug. "Charlotte said you were worried that we wouldn't get married if you were still living here." She nodded, eyes still downcast. "We hadn't gotten married because it wasn't the right time. Now is the right time. And I've gotta tell you—" I squatted down a bit so we were on eye level. "If _you_ move out—_I'm_ not moving _in_."

"I guess that settles the residence question," Ducky murmured. But he was smiling; he knew I was joking. Sort of.

Victoria didn't answer. Not verbally, anyway. But her hug said more than words ever could. "I'm going to clear the dishes, Donald can get your computer up for you—somebody is waiting for a message from her grandma."

"Oh!" She started to rise. "I'm late!"

"Easy, girl, easy," I cautioned. "It won't help if you're sitting in front of the computer with a broken leg." She slowed down, allowing Ducky to take her arm as they left the room. With his leg, it was hard to tell which of them was supporting the other.

I grabbed a stack of dishes and hurried to the kitchen and pulled my cell from my pocket. Lily answered on the first ring. "Before she gets online with Victoria, I need to talk to Charlie. Please." I barely remembered my manners.

"Sure." If Lily was puzzled by my request, she didn't let on. I heard a muffled scrabble as she covered the receiver. "Charlie! Phone!"

After a moment, the receiver cleared. "Hi, Aunt Sandy."

"Hey, kiddo, I need your help." I kept my voice low, just in case. "You said something about Nurse Keithley trying to push Grandma into a home."

"Yes."

"Do you remember the name of the home?" Please, please, please.

"Of course." (Was there really a question?) "It seemed so saccharine. 'There's No Place Like Home.'"

Blech. Made me want to barf. "You're a doll, doll."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm… still formulating my hypothesis," I hedged. "But if it pans out, you'll be the first to know."

"Fair enough. Have you need of me further?"

"Nope. Grandma should be online any second now."

"Oh! Bye!"

A clatter, then Lily's laugh. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing. Say… you mentioned a friend at the _Washington_ _Post_?"

"Yeah, John Mulder. Everyone calls him Fox. They even found a principal photographer for him named Scully."

"Does he believe in aliens?"

"Yep."

"What about conspiracy theories?"

"Lives for them. Why else would he work for the _Post_?" Her voice dropped. "What's up?"

"I don't want to taint the jury pool, as it were. Could you give him my number, ask him to call me tomorrow?"

"Sure." Her voice said she was dying for more info. "Sandy…" She sighed. I waited. "Ev told me. About finding the file, about Ducky—I swear, I totally forgot about it, it was back when I was in Utah, then Dad—"

"It's okay. I understand."

"Have you… told him?"

I let out a whoosh. "No."

"Do you want me to?"

I laughed shortly. "You might get beaten to the punch. She found him." Lily gasped. "Well, sort of. She dropped by while he was out this afternoon. She didn't leave her name—but I know it was Fran. Victoria and I ran into her a few weeks ago. It's just too coincidental," I finished in a whisper.

"Oh, Sandy, I'm so sorry—"

"Not your fault. And, hey, we have a heads' up, as it were." I sighed again. "I'll try to talk to Ducky tonight. Or tomorrow. It's just been hard, finding the right moment—"

"I understand. I do. If you need me, please—"

"I will. And thanks. For everything." I popped the phone back in my pocket and dashed back to the dining room. When Ducky found me minutes later, I was serenely rinsing dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. "All well and good in the cyber world?"

"Chatting away like magpies. Do you need any—"

I shook my head before he had a chance to finish. "I'm going to let the casserole dishes soak overnight. Unless you meant 'pour you a glass of that fabulous German dessert wine you love' by the word 'help.'"

"Your wish is my command," he said solemnly, making me giggle.

He poured two glasses; I took one and we strolled back to the TV end of the living room, hand in hand. "How's the knee?"

"It will be fine by morning."

"I can give you a nice massage when we go upstairs to bed."

He gave me a frisky look. "I should get injured more often."

"Don't you dare." I pushed a pair of ottomans in front of the sofa. "There." I let him settle in first, then curled up next to him. "Best way to watch TV."

"The only way to watch TV," he corrected. He looked around. "Where did I…"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Here." I dug the remote out from under the cushion—and my butt. "News? Movie?" I clicked the power button; we were in the middle of the evening news.

"Might was well see what's going on in the world." He settled into the couch, arm around my waist to draw me near.

Same ol', same ol'. War. Crime. Down-on-your-luck-tearjerker-story. Fraud. Athletes and drugs, congressmen and hookers, schools and funding cutbacks. It's sad when you become numb to the news of the day. I think the nightly recap of Viet Nam during the 60s started that, I really do.

"And on the local front, a crash with injuries on Herndon leaves four hospitalized, one critically, and traffic only just getting back to normal. Jessica?"

The scene switched to a field reporter out on the road, standing in the evening gloom as traffic whizzed by her. "Marcy, I'm standing at the corner of Herndon Parkway and Dranesville Road, right by Chestnut Grove Cemetery—" The camera swung away for a quick view of the cemetery, then back to the reporter. "Traffic is flowing fine, now, but barely an hour ago, it was a disaster here." The screen changed to an earlier view, but Jessica continued as a voice over. "You can see emergency vehicles all over—the primary accident was in the intersection, witnesses state that a 2006 Hummer—" (What a stupid vehicle to be driving in the city. I ask you, who the heck needs a Humvee around here?) "—ran the red light and broad sided an RV that had just entered the intersection. Traffic had already started moving, but some of the vehicles weren't able to stop in time, causing a secondary accident here—" A red circle magically appeared on the screen. Yeah, I couldn't tell from the smashed up vehicles, thanks for the pointer.

We were back to a present-time shot of the reporter. "But the real drama happened before we got here. Fortunately, one of the drivers had the presence of mind to bring out his cell phone, so we do have rough footage—"

"Let's see if there's a movie on."

I looked at Ducky in surprise. "It's almost the end of the hour, everything is either ending or heading for a commercial break. Wait a couple of minutes."

"No, let's—let's change the channel, there must be something—"

"Come on, you were there, it can't be that bad. Or, what, you don't want me to see you flirting with an EMT or something?"

"Sandy—" He reached for the remote, and I held it out of range.

"Whoa, look at that. Jeez…" The voice was the cell phone owner, most likely. The footage was shaky and grainy, but identifiable. Yep, the Humvee had plowed into the side of the RV, just about bending it in two. You could see a strapping young lad helping someone limp away from the RV; the driver of the Hummer was stomping away from his vehicle, waving his arms and yelling into his cell phone. The view swung to the other accident, about ten cars back. "Man, I'd be so (bleep) pissed, somebody (bleep) hits my (bleep) (bleep) car, I'm not even in the (bleep) accident up here—(BLEEP)!" There was a roar over the bleeped cuss word and the view swung back to the primary accident. The RV was on fire, and parts were raining down.

"Propane tank," Ducky said quietly while I stared at the screen in shock.

"Dude! Holy (bleep)! Holy (bleep)ing (bleep) (bleep)! It (bleep)ing (bleep) exploded!" The picture joggled as they ran—closer. The idiots. "Oh, my god, oh, my god! Anybody hurt, anybody hurt?"

"Good God, man!" I knew that voice. "Have you at least called for help?"

"Yeah, yeah, my friend, he's—"

"Well, don't just stand there—"

The video cut off, and the screen went back to the reporter. "Until the paramedics arrived, strangers did a phenomenal job of assisting the injured." Ducky's hand snaked over, going for the remote. I slapped it away. "That gentleman, according to witnesses, broke open the driver's door to the RV, helped the driver to the side of the road, where she collapsed. When the propane tank exploded, he actually threw himself over her body to protect her from falling debris. She might have been further injured; she _probably_ would have died if he hadn't gotten her out of the RV. We tried to get an interview—" Rueful chuckle. "—but he's a bit camera shy and adamantly refused. Police have already charged—"

I turned to him. Slowly. Very slowly. It gave me time to think, and time to keep my voice down. No sense in giving Victoria a heart attack. "So. The back of the jacket is worse than the front, I imagine?"

"N-not really," he stammered. "We didn't get hit by anything."

"But… you hurt yourself because you did a full body cover…?"

"Well…"

I turned to hug him, my cheek next to his. "You crazy duck. That is one of the bravest things I can imagine someone doing. You're a goddamned hero. I am so proud of you. I am… in awe." I kissed him, long and hard, over and over. "And… if you ever do anything like that again, I'll beat you to death myself."

He gave me a wry smile. "You sound like the mother who has lost her child in the store and when she finds him, says, 'I was so worried—you're grounded for a month!'"

"Not far off." I sighed and rested my forehead against his. "Please don't do that again."

He quirked another smile. "I'll try not to."

Victoria was busy typing away in the corner (and frequently giggling like a kid). So much for the old adage that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. You can—if the old dog really wants to learn that particular trick. "Still got family back in England?"

He blinked at the sudden change of topic. "Some. And Scotland. Mother's family is primarily in England—I do have an odd cousin or two here in the States. Father was the only boy; I have three surviving aunts in Scotland and a large assortment of cousins and such over there. Why?"

"Oh, I thought she might like to start e-mailing some other people." I nodded toward his mother.

"Good idea. I have phone numbers for a number of them—I'll call later this week."

"I wonder if your Aunt Gloria is online…"

"I hope not. It's all I need, Mother beating her computer to pieces with her cane because Gloria has tweaked her nose. Again."

I pulled up the cable menu. Whole lot of nothing. Sci-Fi was digging out some oldies but goodies (well, sometimes goodies); they had just finished _Westworld_ and _Futureworld_ back to back and _Sword_ _of_ _Time_ was about to start. "How 'bout it? I remember it being pretty good, even though _Star_ _Wars_ stole most of the audience." Ducky didn't answer, so I hit the enter button on the remote. "It's really, _really_ loosely based on Keith Roberts' novel, _Pavane_. They toned down the religious element—which was a big part of _Pavane_—but—"

"Do you mind if we… watch something else?"

I looked at him in surprise. "No. Of course not. I thought you might like it—it's an alternate history kind of thing, you usually like those."

"The cast… is not my favorite," he said with a small smile.

They had already passed the starring/co-starring/featuring and gotten to the "with" screen (the big name with just a few lines so you can't list him or her first but it's still a big name so you need to list him or her in such a way that they're special—in this case, Joan Crawford). I clicked the info button—hmm, Christopher Lee (post-Dracula), Mariette Hartley, Vince Edwards (OMG, Dr. Ben Casey!), Cameron Carson (his 'break out' role) and Alyce Novak (the former model who caught CC's eye; they married right after filming wrapped—good thing, because she was a crappy actress). I frowned; it was an odd mix, true, but I couldn't think of a reason to actually hate them. Then I remembered his comments a few weeks before about Cameron Carson. "Well, yeah, CC is a jerk, but he's actually a decent actor, much as I hate to admit it." I was kinda surprised; Ducky was still willing to occasionally watch Mel Gibson despite his loathsome anti-Semitic comments when he got snagged on a DUI, and CC had never said or done anything like that. He was a mix of Charlie Sheen and Robert Downey, Jr.: slept with anything cute before he got hitched (hopefully not after) and partied hard the last 30 years. A long string of DUIs, yes, but he had a rep for being a happy drunk. A really happy drunk. (One time he called his lawyer to bail him out and part of the instructions included sending 200 pizzas to the West Hollywood PD. When the booking officer pointed out that they really couldn't take the gift, CC—with cameras rolling—said, "Oh, hell, dude, it's not a bribe. I'm frickin' drunk, we all know that. But I figure since I had all the beer, you should have the pizza!" They all ended up eating pizza, he got community service (again) and I'm sure his lawyer's ulcer loved the pepperoni.) "What gives?"

He sighed. "I had personal dealings with Mr. Carson many years ago. And they were… unpleasant." He looked upset just by saying the words. I could tell that was the end of that he wanted to say on the topic.

"No problem." I scrolled down several screens. "Hope you like chick flicks."

He laughed at my choice. "I actually rather like _First Wives Club_."

I eyed him. "Should I take notes?"

He took my left hand and rubbed it against his cheek. "Not necessary. You're the first and _only_ wife in my life."

"Fair enough."

/ / / / /

I got up extra early Monday morning. Yeah, yeah, I had planned to sleep in—but Ducky shouldn't get gypped out of waffles because of a transatlantic call. So about fifteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off, I crept downstairs and whipped together the waffle batter and put bacon in the microwave.

"I thought you were going to—" He broke off as he entered the kitchen. "Sleep in a bit?" he finished slowly.

He looked a lot better than he had the night before. I had given him a nice, long massage all over, spent extra time on his banged up knee and finished off the evening with some, ah, low-impact cardiovascular stimulation. He looked very, very relaxed.

"Well, it's not fair that my fiancé gets rooked out of breakfast. You have time. Sit. Eat."

"Waffles and bacon and fruit—" He smiled. "And poached eggs."

"Cheese omelet for Mother," I said, setting his tea on the table. "Everybody gets the eggs they like best."

He caught my hand as I turned back for my own fruit and tea and pulled me close. "I should have asked you out the first time I walked into the store." He wrapped his arms loosely around my waist and looked up at me.

"Nah." He looked surprised. I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. "I wasn't that good of a cook until the last ten years or so."

"Oh, _well_ then…" he teased. He let me go, watching me as I brought my food to the table. "Are you having two breakfasts?"

"Well, I want to eat with both of you. So I'm having fruit and tea with you, and waffles and such with Mother."

He twined his hand with mine as I sat, kissing the backs of my fingers. "I am so very glad that you and Mother have grown so close."

"Well, it was a rough go for a while—with all the 'are you pregnant yet?' nonsense. But I think Charlie coming into the family has really helped that. And I really do love her. I know there may come a time when she has to go into a home… or… well… but I hope that's not for a long time."

"Agreed—although, at ninety-nine, long is a relative term."

"True." I dug into my fruit plate; ooh, maybe with the greenhouse Victoria was starting, she might do watermelon and cantaloupe? Lovely. "Honey, Charlie said something about Mother having 'pin money?' What did she mean?"

He laughed. "Oh, such an old term, but Mother hated the idea of an allowance. Back—oh, years ago, when she was still getting around on her own and coming with me to your store or other places—she decided to transfer all of her funds to me. She did it over several years—it was her way of avoiding estate taxes—"

"Smart lady."

"And she knew I wouldn't turn her out on the street, penniless. So long as she had easy access to whatever she wanted or needed, she didn't care whose name was on the account. As she became a little more… forgetful… I found it easier to leave twenty dollars or so in her pocketbook; if it cost more than that, the day nurse decides whether it's a reasonable purchase and, if it is, I reimburse when I come home."

"Very sensible." My mind was percolating. If I didn't hear from Lily's contact by noon, I'd give her a call.

"The biggest problem we have is that she tends to buy the same books over and over. Literally."

"Well, that problem is solved. She has all of Papyrus as her personal lending library."

Ducky ate quickly, but with many appreciative comments. I knew he was on a deadline, so I didn't take offense at the speed. "Will you be here tonight?"

I had filled Underfoot's gravity feeder and water fountain before we left Sunday morning; he wouldn't be happy about no wet food two nights running, but, hey, I'd just remind him there are starving cats in Asia who would love to have his Purina. "Yep. What would you like for dinner?"

He grinned. "Well, I know what I'd like for dessert…"

I wiggled my eyebrows. "With whipped cream?"

"It will mean more laundry…" I giggled. "Dinner. You've been doing most of the cooking lately; I'm going to get rusty at this rate. So it's my turn to cook. What would _you_ like?"

"Surprise me."

His grin turned wonderfully salacious. "_That_ comes later."

From the front porch I watched him back out, waving goodbye to him. It was so absurdly domestic. Most of the dogs were still asleep, providing a furry blanket for Victoria; Cooper, the eldest, had joined us at the door when Ducky kissed me goodbye. I was starting to worry about Cooper; his gait was slowing down and he wasn't sleeping as much as he normally did. He was the first Corgi Victoria had adopted—well, the first of this crew, anyway, there were a half-dozen others who had long since gone to the great dog kennel in the sky. Man; I hope we weren't in for the long drive to the vet's any time soon.

I cleaned up the minor mess from breakfast/first seating and got ready for second seating. A quiet knock at the back door made me look up; I could see Mrs. Bailey's face in the gap of the curtains and hurried over to let her in. "Hi! You're just in time for breakfast."

"What a lovely way to say good morning," she laughed. "I picked up the key from the agency, but I wasn't sure what the protocol is—"

"Usually the day nurse gets here around 7 or 8; if it's 8, we make sure breakfast has been covered for Victoria."

"Oh, my. I _am_ early, then." It was just barely 6:30.

"No prob. Victoria usually gets up around 7, she should be in soon. How do you like your eggs?"

She looked stunned. "Ah—over medium?" she asked hesitantly.

"You got it."

While I was working on the eggs and fresh waffles, Victoria slowly entered the kitchen. She was surrounded by the remaining dogs and her elegant dressing gown looked sharper than half the dresses on the street. "Good morning, dear," she said sweetly. (The ten or fifteen minutes it takes her to get up and put herself together mean the difference between night and day.) She gave me a peck on the cheek and looked at Mrs. Bailey in confusion.

"Remember Mrs. Bailey? She's the new day nurse. You were going to buy a magnolia tree this afternoon?"

She beamed at me. "What a delightful idea!" She made her way over to the table and held out her hand. "I am Victoria Mallard," she said graciously.

Mrs. Bailey didn't miss a beat. "Suzy Bailey. Please call me Suzy."

"And I shall be Victoria. Would you care to join us for breakfast, Suzy?"

She smiled warmly at her charge. "I'd love to."

When I brought the plates over a few minutes later, Victoria patted my hand. "And this is my dear Cassandra. She's going to marry my son very, very soon." She looked at Mrs. Bailey, puzzled. "Have you met Donald?"

"Yes, I have."

"Oh, good." She looked at her plate. "Oh, waffles! You dear girl, what a lovely surprise!"

"With real maple syrup. Just the way you like them." I set the ibrik with warm syrup on a trivet; we had discovered the Turkish coffee "pot" was perfect for her wavering hand (as opposed to the whole jug of syrup—do you have any idea how much linoleum a pint of syrup can cover?). A second copper pot with melted butter went on a second trivet.

She looked around the table, frowning. "Where is Charlotte?"

"At home. Or on her way to summer school. Today is Monday; she spends Friday night or Saturday night here. Not Sunday night." We have this conversation almost every morning. I'm sure Ducky says the same thing when I'm not there.

"Oh." She picked at the edge of her waffle. "I wish she could stay here all the time."

"But since she only gets to stay here some time, doesn't that make it more special when she _is_ here?" Mrs. Bailey suggested.

"I suppose," Victoria sighed. She poured the butter and syrup until her waffle was awash. (Which is why she has a separate plate for her waffle. Cheese omelet with maple syrup? Ugh.)

"If you're going to be shopping all afternoon, you need a good breakfast," I encouraged.

"I'm going shopping?"

"You wanted a magnolia tree," I reminded her. "And maybe you want to look for things for later, after we put up the new greenhouse?"

She looked thunderstruck. "Yes! I had forgotten! We're—we're going to grow tomatoes," she confided to Mrs. Bailey, giving it the long _mah_ in the middle instead of _may_.

"Homegrown tomatoes are the best," Mrs. Bailey agreed.

We had a lively discussion over what fruits and vegetables we might be growing in the greenhouse; since Ducky had given approval over her eating strawberries (actually, his words were, 'She's the one who will suffer if seeds get under her bridgework!'), strawberries were high on the list. Blueberries, asparagus, broccoli and watermelon made the cut, too. (Blueberries are a bush berry. Can they be grown in a greenhouse? Better get a couple of gardening books.) As the list continued to grow, I made a mental note to check the size of the greenhouse; Ducky might have to take it back and exchange it for a larger one. But with all of us chit-chatting across the breakfast table, Victoria managed to pack away a good breakfast (and only slipped one piece of bacon to the dogs—Tyson grabbed it and trotted off, the rest following behind).

"Make sure to wear comfy shoes!" I called out as they left the kitchen.

Well, at least we seemed to be off to a good start with Mrs. Bailey. And she was far more personable than Miss Keithley. My phone hummed (I always turn the ringer down at night); I didn't recognize the number and almost let it run to voice mail until I remembered Lily's friend would be calling. "Hello?"

"Hi. I'm looking for—" There was the sound of papers being shuffled around. "Sandy Mallard?" Close enough. "This is John Mulder calling."

"Hi, this is Sandy. And it's Sandy Talmadge. Mallard is my fiancé's name."

"Ah. Lil said you—well, Lil didn't say much, really. But you wanted to talk to a reporter? What's up?"

"Okay. My fiancé's mother is quite elderly. She still lives at home, but we've gone through a succession of day nurses. It's mostly as a companion, she doesn't really need much in terms of medical care. But the last one was—um—"

"Are we talking elder abuse?"

"No, no, nothing like that. The nurse was—well—kind of a blank. Never brought anything personal out in conversation. Very low-key. Very… methodical."

"Some people are like that. Not a crime."

"No… but I just got this—well, hinky feeling once in a while. And she quit, quite abruptly."

"Again—not a crime."

"Well, after she quit, I found out that she had been pushing Mrs. Mallard to move into a home, some place called There's No Place Like Home."

"Gag me," he muttered.

"Yeah. And when she quit this weekend—it was right after she discovered that Mrs. Mallard doesn't have any money. She put it all into her son's hands ages ago."

"Huh."

I let out a sigh. "I guess when you say it out loud it sounds—"

"_Mildly_ suspicious."

I blinked. "Oh. I was going to say 'stupid.' I like your answer better."

"How long was she there?"

"Mmmh—four and a half weeks or so." She had started right after Book Expo. (We hadn't discovered the prior day nurse was gone until we got back into town. _Abby_ had fired that one and just brought Victoria in to work the last three days we were gone. Apparently the agency was short-handed because of summer and, 'I couldn't leave her there all alone, now could I?' Ducky steeled himself for the worst and was stunned to hear that other than mixing up names like crazy, nothing bad had happened. Fortunately, things had been slow at the Yard that week. Abby and Victoria had drawn scads of pictures to fill the hours.)

"So she's there four weeks… and just quit. No reason, no comment?"

"Well… it's not the first time that has happened. Victoria can sometimes be, uh, a handful."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I have a Grandma Tessa like that. But what about this home she was pushing?"

"I don't know." I sat on one of the kitchen chairs, one leg tucked under the other. "It's just… weird. I mean, the reason they signed up with the agency in the first place was because Ducky wanted her to stay—"

"Wait. Ducky?"

"Ah, my fiancé. His name is Donald Mallard, everyone—"

"Everyone calls him Ducky?" he laughed. "Oh, my god."

"Yeah, it's pretty—"

"No, no—I know him!" (Why am I not surprised? Ducky knows _everyone_.) "Met him, jeez, a couple of years ago on a story. I didn't click with 'Mallard'—but Ducky, there's only one of those."

Agreed.

"Let me do a little asking around. Let's see—No Place… Like… Home…" he muttered. "Nurse's name?"

"Keithley. K-E-I-T-H-L-E-Y. Neoma; it's a weird one, N-E-O-M-A."

"Uh-huh. What was the agency?"

"Hold on." I reached back and pulled the business card book from the catchall drawer. "CompanionAbles. All one word, the 'a' in 'ables' is capitalized. It's a companion service with minor nursing if needed, no heavy medical situations. The number is 703-555-2253. 555-ABLE."

"Got it. Probably nothing—but if I find out anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks." We exchanged good-byes; I closed my phone and tossed the book back in the drawer. It _was_ probably nothing. I was just pissed that she had quit without warning (even though we ended up with someone who looked to be a fantastic replacement) and had been snippy with Charlie. No loss.

I puttered around the house, killing time. In the summer we don't open until noon on Mondays; no reason to rush into town. Granted, there was always something that needed doing around there—but I liked hanging around the house. Like wearing Ducky's robe at my house when he wasn't there to wear it himself, I liked finding things that made his essence seep through my skin and become part of my psyche. The battered box of recipe cards (with handwritten treasures from all manner of relatives, including his mother, making a lie of the story that she's a dreadful cook—on paper, anyway). The slippers that are worn to death but, hey, they don't make 'em any more. The piano exercise books from when he was a youngster. All the bits and pieces of Ducky's universe. And soon to be mine.

Mrs. Bailey stopped by the kitchen on the way out. "We'll probably be back around one."

"I'll be long gone. The dogs have access in and out through the back patio. There's plenty of stuff for both of you for lunch—"

"I saw there aren't any food restrictions. Good."

"Other than making sure she doesn't sneak too much to the dogs, no."

"Got it."

"And she likes having afternoon tea," I cautioned. "She likes English Breakfast or Irish Breakfast. Or, Orange Pekoe. Sugar and lemon—sometimes lemon. Never milk. Not—and I can't say this enough—_not_ Earl Gray. Ducky—er, Dr. Mallard prefers that. She can't stand it. She'll spit it out. Literally." I showed her where the tea things were. "I get special treats and put them in the top shelf of the breadbox, every day or two. We usually have homemade cookies in the jar or, barring that—" I opened a cabinet door. "Store bought. Du—Dr. Mallard got those when it was just too flamin' hot to bake."

She laughed. "It's all right to call him 'Ducky' around me," she whispered conspiratorially. "I can understand calling him 'Donald' or 'Dr. Mallard' around his mother, though."

"Thanks." I looked around the kitchen. "That's pretty much it. You've got all our numbers by the phone—Dr. Mallard can't always come home, but he usually can—I just about always can. And don't hesitate to call. I mean that. Even if she just wants to talk, to hear one of us—it's okay. And any time she wants to come to the store, if you don't mind driving her—that's fine, too."

"Field trip to a book store?" She grinned and rubbed her hands together. "Hot damn!"

I collected a hug and a kiss from Victoria and hustled upstairs to take a quick shower. Sigh; Ducky had made the bed before coming down for breakfast. Part of me appreciated his attention to that detail—part of me liked seeing it all rumpled and mussed after a night of cuddling and making love. Oh, well.

I hopped into jeans and a t-shirt (_I find television to be very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a book –Groucho Marx_), tracked down my sneakers (I suspect Tyson is the one who keeps scattering them to different corners of the house) and grabbed my purse and keys. Making sure all four wet noses were on the inside side of the door, I locked it and skittered down the curved drive toward my van.

And stopped dead in my tracks.

Across the street sat a lone vehicle. A silver Toyota. Emblem from Pegasus Rentals on the back window.

Fran.

I took a long, steadying breath and let it out. I didn't hate her. I couldn't. It was only normal to hunt for the truth if someone had hidden it from you all your life. In my saner, more stable moments I knew that no matter what she said and did, Ducky and I would still be together at the end of the day. We'd weather the storm and come through okay.

Only problem is, I'm not the sanest and most stable person on the planet at any given time, let alone all of the time. So the thought of Fran walking through the front door and announcing herself scared the shit out of me.

I made myself walk over to the car. She was sitting, staring at the steering wheel. Not moving. Not reading. Not doing anything. Just… sitting. She didn't see me come up and jumped a foot when I knocked lightly on the window.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," I said when the window whirred down. She didn't say anything, just stared up at me with big, brown eyes that were so anxious. Some of my fears dissipated and I actually felt sorry for her. "Are you looking for—Dr. Mallard?" I almost slipped up.

"I—I—" she fumbled. She swallowed hard. "Yes?" she said hesitantly.

"He, ah, he already left for work."

"Oh." She turned away, face cast down, staring at her lap.

"Would you—would you like to come in? Leave him a note?" I tried to make my voice as gentle and non-threatening as I could.

She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. "I'll—I'll try later." After a bit, she glanced up at me and managed a smile, then dropped her eyes back down again. "Thanks."

I put my hand on the edge of the door, hoping she wouldn't shoot the window back up. "May I tell him who will be calling later?" I gave her what I hoped was a friendly smile.

Another long silence and another small head shake. "He wouldn't know me." Her voice was almost inaudible.

Oh, god. The poor kid. "Well… a name would be a beginning," I encouraged.

She nodded, over and over, tiny motions with her head as though to pull together the courage. "Fran. Francesca Peterson." She glanced at me, her eyes a shade fearful. Did I know? What would I say?

Fran. As if there had been any doubt? "Hi, Fran. I'm Sandy. I'll tell Dr. Mallard you'll call—tonight? In the next day or two?" I kept the smile on my face. I counted backward—she's been here almost a month and still hasn't gotten up the courage to meet him. I was as scared as she obviously was—but I also felt sorry for this poor, lost little bird.

"Okay." Her eyes never left my face. Fearful. Wary. Watching.

"We'll look forward to hearing from you," I half-lied.

But I was convincing. She managed a smile. "Thanks."

"Sure." I stepped back as she fired up the engine and drove slowly off.

I fought the temptation to go upstairs, crawl under the familiar coverlet and have a good cry. _Well. That's that. That's Fran. Ducky's daughter._ I shivered. _My stepdaughter._

I walked back to the van and leaned against the door. _It's gonna be a long… long… day._

_/ / /_

We opened at 12:00. At 12:02 Ducky called. "How long have you been there?"

"Since… nine-thirty. Doing a new window display for the school year. We just opened."

"Good. Then you've done enough work to justify going out to lunch?"

I laughed. "Hey, I had two breakfasts, remember?"

"And probably as little with Mother as you ate with me."

"Well, I didn't want to be a little piggy-wiggy."

"Abby discovered a delightful place. That's the name—"

"Delightful Place?"

"No," he laughed. "Turkish Delight. It's a hodgepodge of Turkish, Armenian and Greek food."

"Hmm. Sounds pretty good."

"Prepare to be ambushed," he stage whispered. "Felicitations and good wishes will abound."

"Gotcha."

"Pick you up in fifteen minutes?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Why not…

/ / /

Lunch was great. Abby was—well, Abby. Enthusiastic. Bubbly. Overflowing with good wishes, hugs, kisses and love. If nobody else can drag you out of a funk, Abby Sciuto can. God, I love that girl.

And it wasn't just Abby. No, it was everyone on "Team Gibbs"—even the director, a charming woman named Jenny Shepard, had been pulled out of her cave for lunch. "Celebrating Ducky's engagement? I wouldn't miss it," she said.

"I wish I had known it was going to be more than the three of us," I muttered to my dearly beloved while under cover of the massive menus. "I would have made an attempt to look a little more put-together."

"You look wonderful," he soothed. "Business-appropriate attire for your business is different from business-appropriate attire for ours."

Well, again—thank god for Abby. I only looked a _little_ disreputable (at least my jeans and t-shirt had no holes or snags—or, in the case of the jeans, offensive patches from the local head shop); she looked as off-the-wall as she usually did. Micro-mini Catholic schoolgirl plaid skirt, black bodice that was a cross between a pirate movie and a cheesy German beer garden, a white lace top and chains and spikes all over. A look that only Abby can pull off.

While food and chatter flowed (even Gibbs was smiling and jovial), I took advantage of the moment. "Someone stopped by to see you this morning," I said, leaning over so that only Ducky could hear my words. "A Fran Peterson?" I held my breath.

He mulled the name over in his head. "Peterson, Peterson… Hmm. No. Did she mention why she wants to see me?"

I shook my head. "Nope." Not a lie.

Coward.

"Well, I'll find out soon enough."

Yep. Can't wait. I turned back to my apricot and honey cake, forcing a smile. Just can't wait.

/ / /

I left the store at about four; Mondays are the days I catch up on the paperwork for the prior week so that when the bookkeeper comes in on Thursday everything is ready to go. Sales are usually slow, so I do the "housekeeping"—opening up the boxes that arrived and got shoved aside for when things were slower, checking ship slips against my orders, making sure the internet orders had been finished over the weekend and putting them in crates to take to the post office and FedEx and so forth and reconciling petty cash and the like. Housekeeping. Valerie and Randy worked most nights; she was teaching him the ins and outs of internet sales, listing books and processing orders. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights were dead, giving them time to concentrate on the laborious task of pricing, coding and listing; processing sales was easier and could be done on the nights with more customers. I headed back to Reston, knowing the store was—as always with Val—in good hands.

About halfway home, my cell phone rang. Ducky. Well, his home line, anyway. "Hello?" I said, expecting it was Victoria.

"Sandy?" The voice was quiet, but I recognized Mrs. Bailey.

"Yeah. What's up?" I juggled the earpiece back where it belonged. "Suzy? Is Mother okay?"

"She's fine." But her tone was doubtful. "She just finished tea and is taking a nap. She had… an odd call earlier and I wanted to talk to you when she was asleep."

Oh, shit. Fran? "What happened?" I kept my voice even and backed off on the accelerator. 'Don't let your emotions control your driving,' my driver's ed teacher used to tell us. Sound advice, Mr. Packer.

"A woman called—" Shit. Shit, shit, shit. "And asked to speak to Mrs. Mallard. I asked who was calling, and she said 'Charlotte's mother.' I thought it was odd that she didn't say 'Lily' or 'Evelyn'—and it didn't really sound like either of them… And they usually call her Charlie."

"Go on," I said slowly. My mind made a left turn into soap opera land—Hannah wasn't dead, she had an evil twin who was murdered in her place and she had gone into hiding as part of the witness protection program and had now come back to claim Charlie.

Hey. It's not _that_ improbable.

"Well, Victoria has trouble hearing on the telephone" (Not a news flash.) "Even the one in living room with the amplifier." (Frankly, it just makes it louder—not clearer.) "So after several minutes of fruitless non-communication, she hung up and said, 'The silly woman can't hear me so she's coming by to visit later on.' She went in to take a nap, and… well…" She sounded ashamed. "I hit star-sixty-nine to find out who called."

"Good move."

She sighed, relieved. "The same woman answered the phone, I apologized and said I was trying to dial out and hit the wrong buttons."

"Did you get a name, by any chance? Or a phone number?"

"Not a number, but she answered 'so-and-so residence' and it sounded like 'Hammerbaker.'"

I sucked in a breath and swerved. (Sorry, Mr. Packer.) "Could it have been… _Kemmelbacher_?"

"Yes. Yes, that's it. Do you know her?"

"Not yet," I said grimly. "But I'm going to."

/ / /

Victoria was still asleep when I got home. Ducky was due about six, six-thirty; part of me hoped Mrs. K didn't show up until he was home… part of me hoped the opposite.

While we waited for the other steel-toed boot to fall, I gave Suzy a rundown of how the Kemmelbachers fit into our universe. I didn't even try for neutrality; I was pretty sure she was on 'our' side.

She was. "They are fools. Idiots." Her voice was sharper than I ever thought I would hear. I couldn't help looking a little surprised. She let out a deep breath. "I can't say that I felt as strongly as they did—but there was a time when I didn't… when I felt that it was wrong. Not normal." She was clearly pulling her thoughts together; I waited, silent. "My youngest son is about Evelyn's age. Thirty-six. He never told me he was gay. I think—I think I always suspected. But he was a big boy, he played football—not what was put forth as the stereotypical homosexual. He had moved out after high school, came over for dinner one night—this was after my husband passed on—we were watching a movie after dinner." She smiled briefly. "_Victor/Victoria_." (Ouch.) "It was the scene where—oh, what's his name, he was a football player in real life, where he says he became a rockin', sockin' football player so everyone wouldn't call him 'queer'—Jack turned to me and said, 'Mom… that's me.' I just sat there in shock. I didn't know what to say. He left… and I cried. Oh, how I cried. I spent weeks, _months_ begging him to 'change.' Begging him to be 'normal.' Bless that boy, he never gave up on me. Finally, he and his partner took me to a family picnic. It was sponsored by PFLAG—Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays." Her smile grew warmer. "And I realized—_he_ didn't need to change. _I_ did. Jack was the same person I'd loved for over twenty years. And if I couldn't accept that part of him—I'd lose him. And _my_ life would be the one that would be empty because of it."

"I'm glad."

"I… ended up leaving _my_ church because of that. So while I can understand where Charlie's grandparents are 'coming from'—I can't understand why they stay there."

"Very well put." I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged on the couch. "I guess I was lucky. Things weren't out in the open back in the 60s, despite the hippie movement. But my parents—and my older brother—had friends who were from every stripe of the rainbow. You name the country or name the race, we knew someone in that category. Nobody thought anything about it. People were—who they were. That was it. There were a couple of adopted uncles—they weren't partners or anything, they barely knew each other—Kyle and… Kyle and… oh, yeah, Jake. I didn't ask, they didn't tell—but I knew. We all did. Nobody made an issue of it, and nobody cared one way or the other. Kyle was short. And bald. And could drink you under the table. And spoke about twenty languages. And he was gay. It was just part of the list of words you could use to describe Kyle."

"I just can't understand why the Kemmelbachers are doing things that so obviously hurt Charlie. I'm sure they want to see her more—but if they're going to keep speaking ill of Lily and Evelyn, all they're doing is pushing her further away."

"Agreed." I folded my arms. "And what the hell do they want with Victoria?"

We didn't have long to wait. Victoria woke up early from her nap and was in rare form. I keep pointing out to people that she has good days, excellent days—and bad days. This wasn't so much a bad day as it was… interesting.

For the first time in a long time, she forgot who I was. (Suzy never stood a chance.) Fortunately, she thought my name was Marguerite, and Marguerite was someone on her "A" list. (Glad I'm not a brunette. All I would need to cap my day would be having her think I was her sister Gloria. She ended up thinking Suzy was the bookseller around the corner—interesting transposition for the two of us.) Apparently Marguerite had worked with her at the solicitor's office and they had gotten along very nicely. She chattered on about her son who had moved to the States and was now living near Hollywood ("Where they make movies, you know.") Damn. Perfect time to see if she knew anything about Fran's mother and I didn't dare ask. Oh, well, serves me right.

The doorbell rang and I steeled myself for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride—Reston-style. The dogs raced me for the door, barking like crazy. I opened the doors and saw… not what I was expecting. Okay, I guess because Charlie has adopted Victoria as her grandmother I have "grandma" fixed in my head as a sweet, elderly lady. Emphasis on elderly. The woman standing before me was, maybe, five years older than I. Ten at the most. I suddenly remembered parts of the discussion about Lily's not-quite-stepmother, that she had only been a few years older than Lily herself. Definitely a May-December marriage. So it was logical for her mother to be around my age.

Logical. And very disquieting.

"Mrs. Mallard?" she asked, frowning.

"No. Ms. Talmadge," I said, drawing out the 'Ms.' She pursed her lips; yep, I was right, she wasn't big on Women's Lib, either. "Mrs. Mallard is my fiancé's mother, my soon-to-be mother-in-law." _Upset her and I'll break bones that even Ducky doesn't know about. _"Mrs. Kemmelbacher?" She nodded. "Please. Come in." _If you dare._

She entered, moving skittishly away from the dogs. Huh. Not a dog person, either. _Jump on her lap,_ I sent out telepathically. _Everyone. Jump on her lap._

"Victoria?" She looked up from where she was sitting on the sofa, talking with Suzy about god knows what. "This is Mrs. Kemmelbacher."

"I'm so pleased to meet you." She held out a hand. "Are you new to the firm?"

Mrs. K blinked. "Pardon?"

I could have explained. It would have been helpful. But I had no interest in being helpful to this woman, none whatsoever. I let her fumble around on her own.

"The secretarial pool? Are you a new member of the secretarial pool?" She turned to Suzy, who was playing along just fine. "Mr. McMasters mentioned he would be bringing in several new girls." She looked mildly disapproving. "I fear that many of the gentlemen are hiring young girls strictly on their ability to fill a blouse instead of their typing and shorthand skills." She turned a stern look on Mrs. Kemmelbacher. "Have you taken your placement test, missy?"

"I—I—what are you talking about?"

"Your placement test!" She wagged a finger. "If you aspire to more than the typing pool, you needs must type at least ninety words per minute. Are you Gregg? Or Pittman?"

"I came here to talk about Charlotte," Mrs. Kemmelbacher said desperately.

"Charlotte?" Victoria frowned. "I don't remember a Charlotte in the typing pool. Is she new to the firm?"

"She probably is," Suzy said, nodding. She wasn't throwing out any lifelines, either.

"No, no—Charlotte is my granddaughter—"

"Your granddaughter? You couldn't possibly have a granddaughter old enough to work here!"

"Of course she doesn't—" She shook her head. "I came here to talk about Charlotte," she said loudly.

Victoria flinched back. "There's no need to shout, young lady!"

"I need your help," Mrs. Kemmelbacher said, still a little loudly, taking the seat next to Victoria (who looked at her warily). "Charlotte has told me so much about you—" (_but obviously not enough_, her look clearly said) "—I feel like I already know you."

"Well, I don't know you," Victoria said bluntly.

"I'm very worried about Charlotte. I don't think it's safe for her where she is."

Suzy closed her eyes and turned her face away briefly. Smart move.

"Has she—has she taken up with hippies?" Victoria whispered excitedly.

This time Mrs. Kemmelbacher's mouth actually fell open. "What?"

"You said she isn't safe. I hear that some of those hippies are smoking… _hashish_," she said with a sage nod.

Mrs. Kemmelbacher took a long, slow breath. "Let me try from the start." She took out her wallet and removed a picture of Charlie (about 2 years ago; ouch). "This is my granddaughter. Charlotte." She handed it to Victoria, who stared at it for a long moment. "Her mother was my daughter. Hannah Grace." (Hannah means graceful and Grace means, well, grace. How redundant.) "Hannah passed away when Charlotte was quite young—" Nice gloss-over of the facts. "—and Charlotte's father died just the other year."

Victoria continued to stare at the picture, transfixed. "Charlotte…"

"It's—it's absolutely indecent. Bad enough that they don't call her by her proper name—"

"She prefers Charlie," I muttered.

"Charlie is a little boy's name," she said stiffly. "It's just more proof that they're trying to turn her into—"

"Would you like some iced tea?" I interrupted.

She blinked. "No. No, thank you." She turned back to Victoria, who was still staring at the picture. "Charlotte is a very bright young girl. And she's very impressionable. She speaks so fondly of you—" Her smile was tight; it probably killed her to say that. "I'm sure you want the best for her."

"Charlotte…" Victoria said softly.

"Yes—yes, Charlotte. She's my youngest grandchild. She needs to be protected—"

There was a faint noise from Victoria's other side. "I'll go get that tea," Suzy said, hurrying for the door. I'm glad she left—it would be a shame to have to bail her out of jail on her first day on the job.

"Her half-sister has been caring for her, but it's more than she can handle." (Bullshit!) "She really needs to be in a stable home, with parents—or, _grandparents_. A husband and wife—"

"Charlie is _in_ a stable home." I couldn't keep my mouth shut anymore. "Just because you don't approve of the fact that Lily is gay and she and Evelyn are together—"

The look in her eyes was absolutely venomous. "Lily is confused. I'm sure that if she were away from that Evelyn person—" (Ever see someone's lip curl in disgust? For real? Not just described in a story? It's really weird looking.)

Victoria frowned. "Evelyn?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher forced a smile. "Yes. Evelyn. She's a… friend… of Lily's. Lily is Charlotte's half-sister. Evelyn is not a good influence for a little girl—"

"Why not?" Victoria looked at her, confused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you think Evelyn isn't a good mother?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher actually shuddered. "She is not Charlotte's mother. She—"

"Yes, she is." Victoria looked at her like she was dense. No argument.

"No!" she said sharply. "Charlotte's mother was my Hannah Grace—"

"Oh, yeah, the married woman who was caught sleeping with a married man—_not_ her husband, by the way," I muttered—just loudly enough for only one of them to hear me. Victoria didn't know the particulars—not that I knew, anyway.

Mrs. Kemmelbacher whirled around to face me. "How dare you—"

"Speak the truth?" I finished sweetly. "Sucks, doesn't it."

"Are you—are you Charlotte's grandmother?" Victoria asked, staring at her rival.

"Yes. Yes, I am," she said, trying to bring her voice under control. "And I know that you care very much for her, and only want the best for her—"

Victoria nodded. "Of course I do. She's writing a book for me," she said confidingly.

"How nice," Mrs. Kemmelbacher said politely (barely). "But the subject at hand—I need your help."

"Of course!" Victoria beamed. Uh-oh.

"I need you to talk to our lawyer. If people outside the immediate family testify how bad it is for Charlotte to be living there—"

"Why in the world would I say that?" (_Go, Mom!_ I cheered silently.)

"Well—it's—it's not right. Bad enough that Lily has been pulled down the path of Satan—" (I'm gonna puke.) "But she's dragging a poor, innocent child with her—"

Victoria looked horrified. "Dear heavens! What is Lily doing?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher was stunned into silence for a moment. "What?"

"What is Lily doing that's so—so—sinful?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher drew herself up ramrod straight. "Homosexuality… is… a… sin!" she almost spat. "If a man lies with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them," she quoted.

"Leviticus 20, verse 13," I shot back. She looked startled. "Don't get me going on the other verses. Trust me."

"But what does that have to do with Lily and Evelyn?" Victoria asked, still clearly confused.

I sighed. "Mrs. Kemmelbacher _chooses_ to belong to a church that believes that homosexuality is a sin. So, because Lily and Evelyn are lesbians—" (though Evvie has always maintained she's bi) "—they're going to burn in hell, Charlotte goes to hell with them, yadda, yadda, yadda."

"Oh, pooh." She gave a dismissive wave as only Victoria Mallard can. "Clearly she's not Episcopalian," she whispered loudly to me.

"God has told me—"

That was met with a very unladylike snort. "I speak to God frequently," Victoria said airily. "He hasn't mentioned you once." (Well, gosh, that almost-quote makes it dead certain where Izzy got her name.)

"I beg your pardon?"

"Certainly," Victoria answered with great cordiality.

For about two seconds I kind of felt sorry for Charlie's grandmother. Following Victoria can be, uh, challenging. "But—but, Charlotte—Lily—Evelyn—" She winced; it was causing her almost physical pain to say Evelyn's name. "Surely you can't—you can't approve," Mrs. Kemmelbacher gasped.

"They're all good girls," Victoria stated with a sharp nod. End of subject.

"They don't even take her to church," Mrs. Kemmelbacher hissed. "They're—they're _Satanists_!"

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud!" I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "Can't you get _anything_ right?"

"They are—"

"Lily grew up Presbyterian and Evelyn is second generation Unitarian." (Actually, I had been surprised at this. After Evelyn's comment about Lily having some Wiccan friends "cleanse" the store, I was sure she followed what my mother would call 'an alternate path.' Wrong. She had been a choir member until she left high school and had even been an altar girl—progressive parish, apparently.) "Charlie isn't being forced into a particular dogma, she's being allowed to explore and research any religion or path that interests her."

"And that is _wrong_!" She pounced on it like a starving dog on a fresh steak. "It's up to parents to guide, to mold, to shape—"

"Just smack that clay around until it bends to your will, eh?" Something tells me she and I aren't going to be exchanging Christmas cards in the future.

"Charlotte belongs in a _proper_ household!"

I opened my mouth for another pithy comment but was cut off by a sharp gasp from Victoria. She looked from me to Mrs. K and back, horrified. Things were finally percolating through the aquifer. "You—you're trying to take Charlotte away!"

"It's for the best—"

"You're trying to take my angel away from her mothers! And—and from _me_!" Hearing the distress in Victoria's voice, the dogs converged back on the room making low, menacing noises. Tyson even bared his teeth. (Sic 'er!) Victoria struggled to her feet, eyes blazing. "Now I remember! Charlotte has told me all about you, you—you—" Words failed her, so she did the next best thing.

She spat at her.

"Mother!" I gasped. (I was trying not to laugh.)

"Cassandra!" She started to cry. "She wants to take Charlotte away!"

I sprang up and threw my arms around her. "Over my dead body." I glared at Mrs. Kemmelbacher, who was still trying to figure out what the heck was going on. "Or someone else's," I added grimly. I patted Victoria's back and settled her back on the couch.

One last appeal. "It's Charlotte's eternal soul I'm worried about. Surely as a God-fearing woman you can understand—"

Victoria pointed an accusing finger. "_Your_ god. _Your_ rules. _You_ go to hell."

I clapped my hands over my mouth. She had seen that bumper sticker while we were driving and demanded I explain it to her. She had said it to any number of people after that, usually totally out of context. Today, however—home run!

Mrs. Kemmelbacher gathered the shreds of her dignity. "I'm sorry my trip was in vain," she said carefully. "I hope you will consider the consequences of your actions—or lack thereof." Gas at four bucks a gallon, driving from and back to Hagerstown—that must chap her hide. She started for the door.

Victoria got to her feet faster than I've ever seen. "_Get_ _out of my house_." She smacked her cane on the floor; I swear all the lights flickered, like she was channeling Nanny McPhee. "Never come here again!" She advanced on Mrs. Kemmelbacher—who towered over her by half a foot and outweighed her by forty pounds, but was smart enough to shrink back from this pissed-off old lady. "Don't you ever—_ever_—try to hurt any of my girls again! Not Charlotte, not Lily, not Evelyn, not Cassandra! Do you hear me?" (_Mother, the whole neighborhood can hear you. But don't let that stop you_.) "If you dare to even speak ill of them—" She raised her cane and I was sure we were in for it. "I shall eviscerate you and feed you to stray dogs!"

And here I had doubted some of the stories I'd been told. Looks like I owed Tony DiNozzo a five-spot.

Suzy emerged from the hallway bearing a tray with four glasses of iced tea. "Tea?" she asked brightly. I know darn well she was listening to every word. (I would have.)

There was a strangled noise—I don't know if it was Mrs. Kemmelbacher boiling over, Victoria snorting at her or one of the dogs giving their version of, 'oh, bugger off.' She walked cautiously to the front door and managed a, "Good day," as I gently shut the doors behind her.

I swooped down on Victoria. "You… were… _brilliant_!"

She looked delighted. "Was I? What did I do?"

"You clipped that dragon's wings but good. She came here figuring you were going to be an ally—and, boy, was she wrong."

"Ally? Ally for what?"

Suzy set the tray on the table. "She probably thought that because you are from an older generation, you wouldn't approve of Lily and Evelyn."

She gave a _tsk_. "Silly woman." She turned to me. "Have you seen my new tree?" She clasped her hands together. "It's beautiful!" Once again, a conversational left turn: no lights, no signals.

I picked up both of our glasses. "Let's go sit under the new magnolia tree and see if we can pretend to be old Southern belles."

When Ducky came home an hour later, he found the three of us in the back yard perched on lawn chairs, drinking 'mint juleps' and giggling as though they really were bourbon and sugar and mint instead of plain tea and ice. (Can you get loaded on straight iced tea?)

Victoria looked at him smugly. "Cassandra says I'm brilliant."

He blinked but took it in stride. "Well—if Cassandra says it, then it's true." She smiled, happy as a clam. "Stuffed pork chops?"

"I know there's a joke there somewhere…"

He looked at Suzy. "You are joining us for dinner, yes?"

She looked surprised. "Ah—thank you. I'd love to."

"You ladies relax—" He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I want to hear all about Mother being brilliant," he whispered. "Dinner shall be ready in less than an hour," he said in a normal volume, straightening up.

"A gal could get used to this," Suzy said, slouching slightly in her chair and putting her feet on the retaining wall.

"Yep. She could," I agreed, doing the same. "She definitely could."

* * *

-4-


	5. Chapter 5: To You

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**To You**

* * *

"That little girl is a keeper."

"Yep." I checked the cornbread; not quite done. "I'm glad you don't have a problem with her being here."

Mrs. Bailey looked astonished. "Why in the world would I object to the family structure of someone else's family? And Mrs. Mallard adores her. If more of my patients had had a Charlie in their house, it would have been better for everyone involved. Have you seen the book she's putting together?" I held my fingers about an inch apart. "It's wonderful! All those stories that would have been lost." She grinned, looking rather elf-like. "And I love the fact that they both take naps!"

I laughed. "Ho, yeah. You try getting a nine year old to take a nap and no way in hell is that going to fly. But if it's keeping Grandma company—"

"Roll out the sleeping bags," she finished. "And thank you for the dinner invitation. Again." This was the third night in a row that she had joined us for dinner. Monday's adventures had just solidified for her the idea that this was the perfect posting. The fact that she chaperoned Victoria and Charlie at the movies the next night made me think the same thing. (Ducky was sold on their first meeting.)

"Quite welcome. It's easier to cook for more than just one or two people—one more person at the table is a good thing."

"It smells wonderful."

"Just beef stew and cornbread. And asparagus. Victoria loves asparagus."

"Lots of vitamins and minerals. I'm glad she's able to eat 'regular' food."

"A couple of years, there, she had a problem. But we got her new dentures this last January and they fit so much better than the others." I held a finger to my lips. "Ix-nay on the entures-day."

"Got it." She glanced around the kitchen. "Where did Lily go?"

"She's outside with Dr. Mallard. Going over the greenhouse plans, I think. Or putzing with her car—she said it was idling rough."

"She's a mechanic, too?"

I laughed. "No," I said, thinking of the Morgan that Ducky treated with TLC. "No, Dr. Mallard is."

Her eyebrows flicked up. "Really? He didn't strike me as the auto mechanic type."

"He's a man of _many_ talents."

"Uh-huh." Her eyes twinkled. "I hear there will be a second Mrs. Mallard in the house very soon."

We both jumped and then laughed at ourselves; the bangs from outside were classic backfires. Yep, they'd moved from greenhouse to under the hood. "We're still discussing that. I actually like the sound of Cassandra Mallard—"

"It rather sounds like an author's name."

"How fitting."

Her eyes brightened. "Yes! Dr. Mallard was saying—"

Dr. Mallard wasn't saying anything, but he was flying through the back door. He grabbed the receiver. "Where's Charlotte?" His voice was low and urgent as he punched—dear god—911.

"With Mother. What—?"

He held up a hand. "We need a paramedic unit. Gunshot victim."

I grabbed the edge of the sink. _Gunshot?_ Oh, god—Lily!

"Please. No sirens. The victim's daughter is inside the house." Pause. "Yes, this is Dr. Mallard." Pause, and a glance toward me. "Critical. Yes. Yes." He hung up and hurried outside. He didn't even look to see if I was following him—which, of course, I was. "She lost consciousness almost immediately. Three shots. The first one missed. The other two—"

"Oh—oh, Lily!" My voice cracked and my knees started to shake.

"If you're going to fall down—sit down," he said sharply.

That helped buck me up. "What can I do to help?"

"Keep Charlotte far away. She doesn't need to see this." He knelt by Lily, touching her throat for a pulse. "Clean towels. Try to slow—"

I tore back to the kitchen. "How bad?"

"Bad," I gasped, pulling tea towels from a drawer.

"Can I help?"

Frankly, an ex-Navy nurse would be more help than I would be. "I don't know. Probably." I handed her the towels and she hurried back outside.

I had the presence of mind to turn the stew to low before running on tiptoes to the front door. By sitting in the window seat at an awkward angle I could see what was going on in front while keeping an eye peeled for activity across the hall.

Within minutes, two police cruisers pulled up—lights, no sirens. Thank heavens for small favors. Shortly after that followed paramedics and the requisite fire engine and Ducky and Mrs. Bailey were relieved of duty. Ducky stayed with the police while Mrs. Bailey headed back toward the kitchen.

I met her at the door. "How is she?" I whispered, terrified Charlie would walk in and hear the worst news possible.

"Hanging in. They need to get her stabilized for transport." She kept her voice low, too. "One shot here—and here—" she pointed to her right abdomen and further up and toward the center—right near the heart, oh, god. "Neither has an exit wound. She's lost a lot of blood—pulse thready, respiration shallow—but she's hanging on."

"Where are they taking her?"

"Reston Hospital Center. They might stabilize her and get her to University of Maryland—it's the nearest major trauma center, it would be an airlift. Or they might be able to treat her at Reston."

"I'd better call Evelyn." I turned away blankly. Shot. Lily was shot. That's not something that happens in Reston. Hell, it wasn't something that happened in Kalorama, the high rent district where Lily's father had lived and the girls now made their home. It just… didn't… happen.

Voice mail. Shit. "Hey. It's Sandy. Call me." I clicked off before my voice could betray me.

Time dragged. No call back from Ev—for which I was kind of grateful. No sounds from Victoria's room—for which I was extremely grateful.

Finally the back door opened and Ducky came in, looking older and more tired than I've ever seen. "She's on her way to the hospital. Stable—for the moment. They'll have her in surgery as quickly as possible. I'm going to follow—" He sighed at my curious look. I wasn't upset—far from it. It just surprised me. "Other than Charlotte, her immediate family is limited and far away."

"Ev—"

"Evelyn… is not considered immediate family," he said gently.

"But—" Realization dawned and I shut my mouth. Hard.

"Yes. But a physician has certain… privileges."

"RHIP," I muttered. "Thank you," I quickly added, lest he think I was angry with him about the situation—not that I really thought he'd ever truly think that. "I called Ev, left a message to call me back." I wanted to go with him, get whatever info I could—but—

"I'll stay here with Mrs. Mallard and Charlie," Mrs. Bailey said decisively. "You keep on top of things—I'm sure we'll be heading over, but I'll make sure they get a hot meal in them before we go."

Ducky hesitated. "Mother—"

"Charlie will want to be with her mother. And her grandmother will want to be with Charlie."

"Mother—tends to wander off, especially in hospitals," Ducky said hesitantly. "She… dislikes hospitals."

"She hasn't lost me yet," she said with a smile. "And… I don't think she'll stray far from Charlie's side."

"True," he admitted. "Give us a call before you leave. If you can't reach either of us on a cell—"

"Call the main desk, have them track you down," she filled in. "We won't leave until I touch base with you. And if this runs late—" She smiled firmly; she clearly thought it would. "—I've pulled all-nighters many a time over the years."

Ducky have her shoulders a one armed hug. "God bless you, Suzy Bailey."

"Amen," I said fervently.

"Scoot. Before they wake up."

We scooted. The police were still out in force, interviewing neighbors, taking measurements and being busy. Very busy. I averted my eyes from the blood on the lawn while Ducky moved Lily's car out of the driveway where they had been tinkering with it. "Do you want me to drive?"

I shook my head no. "Thanks. It'll give me something to think about."

I carefully backed out (driving over a cop car is a _bad_ thing to do) and Ducky hopped in at the street. I sat idling for a moment, then looked at him, aghast. "I have no idea where to go!"

He reached over and gently squeezed my hand. "Turn left at the end of the block. I'll guide you."

I turned my hand over and grasped his for a long moment. "You always do."

/ / /

By the time we got to the hospital, I still hadn't gotten a call back from Evvie. Before we walked in, I sent her a quick text: _Call me ASAP._ Then we walked into hell.

The main desk tracked Lily to the ER. We walked to the other side of the hospital to discover she wasn't in the ER—she had already been moved up to surgery. Back to the far side of the hospital. By the time we got upstairs to the surgical suite, I was ready to commandeer a wheelchair for Ducky. He knee was still bothering him from Sunday and we had been walking for miles. But the man has incredible reserves. We got upstairs and I wisely stayed in the background, knowing that the combination of his charm and professional credits would get us somewhere whereas my status as "friend of the family" meant diddly-squat.

I was right. He took my elbow and guided me to the family area, which—thank god—was empty. Most surgeries are scheduled for the morning and daytime. Dinnertime and beyond is for emergency surgery and other disasters. This qualified for both categories. "She's in surgery. The good news is, there's no damage to her heart. The one bullet missed by two centimeters." (Two centimeters? _Two centimeters?_ That's, like, frigging nothing!) "She's going to be in surgery for quite a while. We should probably go downstairs to the coffee shop while we have the chance." As we walked back to the elevator, he leaned over to whisper, "And I'd like to make a stop at the office of the Chief of Surgery..."

The food was—well, it was food. Edible. And it would keep us upright for a while. Far more satisfying had been Ducky's short visit with a quasi-friend from a while ago, the son of a former bridge partner. (Sounds like a curse, doesn't it? "Oh, son of a bridge partner!" Oy, I'm getting punchy.) Ducky had laid it out on the line—Lily, Charlie and Evelyn— and gotten permission for access to the observation room. Dr. Gallanos would have a "talk" with the duty nurse on the surgical floor; there would be a bit of looking away as the night went on.

As we were finishing the remnants of our dinner, Ducky's cell phone rang. I unabashedly listened to the one-sided conversation.

"Donald Mallard. Yes. Yes. No, not for quite some time. But there won't be a problem with any of us being upstairs—"

My phone chirped. Text from Evelyn: _Calls aren't going through but texts are OK. What's up?_

I sighed. What to say, how to say it. _Lily has been hurt. She's at Reston Hospital. In surgery. Ducky and I are here, he's our go between._

After a moment: _Is Charlie okay? What happened?_

From Ducky's quiet, gentle tone, I was sure he was talking to Charlie. _She's fine. She was asleep. Lily was outside with Ducky, talking about her car. She was shot._

"I understand, sweetheart. There will be quite a wait. You might want to bring a book—"

Chirp. The screen was filled with huge letters: _W T F ?_

_I don't know details, ask Ducky when you get here. Mrs. Bailey is bringing Charlie and Victoria over. DRIVE CAREFULLY. Can't answer cells on the floor. We're waiting outside surgery #2._

"They'll be on the way in a moment," Ducky said as we closed our phones in unison.

"Ev, too. She's going to be a mess on the road."

"Hopefully not too much so. We don't need a second patient."

"Very true."

Upstairs there was nothing new—unless you counted the new respect from the ward nurse. "No news is good news," Ducky murmured. He took advantage of the moment to go into the observation room for a while, leaving me to thumb through tatty copies _of Ladies Home Journal, Newsweek, People_ and _Vogue_. It seemed like forever until he returned. "Progressing nicely—but slowly. Her gall bladder was essentially destroyed. They're going to remove it. One of the bullets was lodged very neatly inside, stopped it from damaging another organ she might not live without so readily." His face became grave. "While they were transporting her upstairs, the second bullet shifted and is appreciably closer to her heart." Reminiscent of when I first saw Lily on the ground, I sat down before I could fall down. "There's no need to be concerned," he reassured me. "They just want to be cautious." I nodded dumbly. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a long, hard hug. "She'll be fine."

I don't know where Evelyn was coming from, but she made it in record time. Ducky took her aside and gave her the lowdown; she listened silently, asking only a couple of questions at the very end, questions I couldn't hear.

The elevators at the end of the hall opened. Victoria emerged, Charlie's hand in hers; Mrs. Bailey followed behind. Charlie's face lit up as soon as she saw me and she started forward. Mrs. Bailey leaned over and said something—probably 'no running in the hospital' because she stepped back and walked down the hall at a reasonable rate. She stopped in front of me and took one of my hands in her free one. She stared up at me, silent.

"She's going to be okay. She's in surgery right now. Uncle Ducky keeps checking on her. Everything is going to be _oh_… _kay_. Okay?"

Ducky and Evelyn came out of the little alcove where they had been talking. Charlie immediately dropped our hands, walked over to Ev and held up her arms like a toddler. Ev scooped her up and hugged her tightly. Finally safe with her second mom, Charlie did something I'd never seen: she broke down and cried.

Poor kid. I turned away, trying to give them a semblance of privacy. Mother and father dead, grandparents fighting over her custody, adoptive mom in surgery in critical condition… it was a hell of a lot for anyone to deal with, especially a nine-year-old, no matter how precocious.

Ev carried her over to the far corner and sat down, Charlie on her lap. "My poor little angel," Victoria murmured. She looked so much older than she had a few hours ago.

"Yeah," I said quietly. I caught sight of a familiar figure by the elevator and did a double-take. "What the—" I caught Ducky's eye.

He got to my side just as the newcomer joined us. "Jethro! What are you doing here?"

"Working late. Reston PD alerted us there was—an incident at our M.E.'s residence."

"Matthew?" Victoria shuffled forward a few steps and took his arm. "How nice to see you!"

"Mrs. Mallard." He patted her hand. "You look lovely today." She giggled and looked up at him flirtatiously. "But I need to speak with Dr. Mallard—"

"Victoria, why don't we go down to the gift shop? We can find something nice for Lily, maybe get something for Charlotte to cheer her up, too?" Mrs. Bailey slipped up on her other side.

"But—" She looked from Gibbs to Mrs. Bailey.

"That's an excellent suggestion," Gibbs said with a winning smile. (I have to admit, he can be charming. When he wants to be.) "I'm sure you'll find the perfect thing for both of them"

"You do?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I do."

"Will you—be here when I return, Matthew?" It's kinda cute, watching her flirt with him. We needed a dose of cute, for sure.

"I'll make sure to be, ma'am."

With that assurance, she took her cane in hand, slipped her free hand through Mrs. Bailey's elbow and hustled off. I think the promise of Gibbs remaining made her move faster than normal (which is pretty darn fast, really).

As soon as she was out of earshot, Gibbs turned back to Ducky. "What happened?"

"Exactly as I told the police. Lily was questioning an odd noise her car was making. We solved the problem—I was just walking back from the garage, Lily was at the edge of the drive, she was shot—" His voice wavered.

"Did you see the shooter?" Gibbs was making notes on a spiral notepad. It suits him.

"I'm not sure," Ducky said slowly. "But… I _think_ it might have been a woman who stopped by just as I got home from the Yard."

I looked up in surprise. What woman?

"What woman?" Gibbs was working those psychic powers of his.

"She was looking for someone on Mallard Lake Drive—we end up with someone once a month or so with that problem. There's a particular address search site online that has me crossed with someone on that street because of the name. That was, oh, my, about an hour before… but the glimpse I saw of the driver… yes, yes, I think it was she."

"Okay, start from the top. What did she look like? What do you remember?"

"I only spoke with her for a moment. A minute or two. Perhaps five minutes. I wasn't taking notes!"

"Just… try. Close your eyes, put yourself back in the situation."

"All right. Fine. But I'm telling you, I can't remember a thing."

"Try."

He closed his eyes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Brunette. Medium brown. Dyed—recently, too. About yea long… wavy. It looked like waves from having had her hair in a plait, not from nature. Or… _possibly_ a wig. _Very_ tall. Five… eleven at least. No, she was wearing high heels, make that five-eight or so out of shoes. Beautiful smile, like she's just thought of something sly and witty and is about to share it with you… And an absolutely lovely laugh. A most determined air about her. Very large eyes, not unattractively so. Green. Hazel rim. She wears contacts—"

"Excuse me?"

"Contacts, contact lenses. When she glanced up like this… I could see the lens shift on her eye. Nearsighted. She was able to see the address on the neighbor's house perfectly, but had trouble reading the paper with the directions."

"Doesn't that make her farsighted?"

"Her contact lenses correct the nearsightedness, giving her corrected distance vision. But, as happens when one gets older—don't look at me like that—one frequently needs reading glasses, and her contacts are not bifocal. Nor did she have reading glasses on. A couple of rings—wedding set, I'm fairly sure. Oh—spot on makeup. Almost professional. A bit too much, if you ask me. Pierced ears, one on each side. Pretty little dangling earrings—beaded peacock feathers. You know, peacocks traditionally—"

"The girl, Duck?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course… you couldn't really call her a girl, not without verging on some insult. I'd say… early to mid-fifties, but most people would take her for forty at the most, with just a quick glance. She's lost weight—"

"She mention this?"

"Heavens, no. But her suit was an impeccable fit—however her coat was at least four or five sizes too large. Jacket and skirt were charcoal gray. No collar, two buttons. Skirt hit about two inches above her knees. Great legs, by the way… Blouse was what they call pearl gray, high collar, buttons down the front, very… tight fitting. Silk, everything was silk, raw silk suit, polished blouse. Coat was a black trench coat."

"You said it was big on her. Maybe someone else's coat?"

"No, she was too familiar with it. It was an expensive coat, the kind that never goes out of style; she's probably quite attached to it. She drives a stick shift—"

"You saw her car? What kind?"

"Green?"

"All green cars have a manual shift, eh?"

"No, no, the wear on her heels! The left has heel wear one would see from balancing a clutch. Black heels, ankle strap, she had trouble balancing, she's seemed accustomed to wearing heels—perhaps a weak or slightly sprained ankle would be my guess. She has a faint scar on the palm of her left hand, looked quite old. I can picture her trying to slice a bagel in a foolish manner and being injured in that way."

"Anything else?"

"Either raised with a nanny or went to finishing school."

"What? How—"

"Her posture, dear boy, her posture!"

"Okay. What about the gun?"

"Well… it wasn't a shotgun."

"No… but, forty-five? Nine mil? Automatic?"

"It all happened so quickly… and I just really have no eye for detail."

"Yeah. I noticed." Gibbs flipped a page and I tried not to laugh. "Car?"

"Ah, green. Dark green. Four door."

"Make? Model?"

Ducky smiled apologetically. "It wasn't a Morgan, that much I can tell you."

"Good description on the woman, Duck. We'll get with Reston PD, get out a BOLO—"

"But why would anyone want to shoot Lily?" I kept my voice low; Ev and Charlie weren't that far away.

"Wasn't necessarily her," Gibbs murmured, jotting notes like crazy. At the chorus of silence, he glanced up. "Ducky _does_ work for a major government agency, despite our lack of publicity."

"If she was aiming for me, then she is a particularly atrocious shot," Ducky snapped. "I was over fifteen feet away!"

"Mmh," was Gibbs' only comment.

"But if that's true, then who would want to hurt—or kill—Lily?" I asked again, my voice barely audible. Gibbs just shrugged.

Who, indeed?

Ev had caught sight of Gibbs; I could see her draw back ever so slightly. Hey—they didn't have the best history. But apparently the past was the past—he walked over, gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and squatted down so he could get an eye on Charlie, who was still huddled close to Evelyn. "Hey. You must be Charlie. Your Uncle Ducky's told me a lot about you." (He has? News to me.) "I just wanted to tell you I'm really sorry about your mom—and we're going to help the police as much as we can and catch the person who hurt her."

Obviously Uncle Ducky hadn't mentioned that she's almost into double-digits, age-wise. Gibbs was doing what so many people did—assuming because she was a tiny thing she was also younger than she is. But she didn't smack him down; she just smiled slightly and said, "Thank you. Do you work with Uncle Ducky at NCIS?"

"Yes, I do." He held out a hand and she shook it solemnly. "Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Miss Charlie." He pulled a card out of a pocket and handed it to her. "If you—or your mom—" his glance included Evelyn; sometimes he does something that shoots him to the top of my list—this was one such moment. "—want to ask me any questions, or just talk—you call, okay?" He took the card and scribbled something on it. "That's my cell number. Day or night. Okay?"

The smile she gave him was a little brighter, a little braver. "Okay."

By the time Victoria and Mrs. Bailey got back upstairs, Charlie was feeling a little more settled and was sitting next to Ev, reading a battered Zenna Henderson book. Victoria had found a pretty little folding picture frame to give to Lily. "It's just the right size for a picture of you over here and a picture of dear Evelyn over there. That way the two of you will be with her the whole time she has to stay in this dreadful place."

Charlie gave her a long hug, head nestled on her shoulder. "That's so perfect, Grandma. And I know the exact photos I shall use."

"And… chocolate won't really make things better, but it certainly won't make them worse." Victoria handed her a paper bag crammed full of Lindt chocolate balls. Hello, early Christmas!

Evelyn managed a smile. "Just don't eat all of them at once."

"That would be both greedy and foolish," Charlie said absently, poking through the bag. She stopped short. "Would you like one?" She offered the bag to each of us in turn; to be polite, we each took one (even Gibbs) (she'd never notice them missing, there had to be three pounds in the bag). Having salvaged her manners, she found a dark chocolate ball, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. No, chocolate won't really make things better—but it doesn't hurt.

Who would want to hurt Lily? She's a genealogist, for Pete's sake. What did she do, stumble over a dirty little family secret about a politician? Uncover Rush Limbaugh's love child? There had only been two people out there—as Ducky had said, if he was the target the shooter was an uncommonly lousy shot. I glanced over; he was at the nurse's station, talking to the duty nurse. I had seen it in his eyes; just the idea that someone was gunning for him and hit someone near and dear to all of us had left him rattled.

As illogical as it sounded, it _had_ to be Lily that someone was hunting. Even if someone were as lousy a shot as—well, Dick Cheney—surely after missing the first time and hitting Lily the second, they would have (dear god) tried to aim better on the third shot. So there really was no reason for Gibbs to be investigating, for NCIS to be involved at all—but I felt better thinking that he would be involved.

Time dragged by. Ducky slipped away several times; each time he returned from observation he was met with a sea of anxious eyes. "Things are progressing very well," he said each time. "They're just going slowly."

Victoria and Charlie settled into a corner; Charlie was describing the stories from her book and Victoria was listening avidly. Evelyn was in the opposite corner, talking with Gibbs. Gibbs looked as serious as he usually does; Evelyn looked as serious as she rarely does. Part of me wanted to know what they were talking about, but it wasn't a big part. My nerves were enough on edge as it was.

The duty nurse checked on us a couple of times, letting us know there was coffee and tea and juice and milk in the side room, and a couple of cots one room beyond that. (Good luck getting anyone to sleep.) Another nurse stopped by—I remembered her from the ER. She stopped at the nurse's station, not coming over to our group, though she did glance over several times—it was probably a matter of paperwork. (This was a hospital. It's _always_ a matter of paperwork.)

Another hour passed. To my surprise, Gibbs continued to hang around. He talked with Evelyn; he chatted with Victoria, making Charlie giggle. God, it was a wonderful sound. He conferred with Ducky, probably trying to pull more bits and pieces from his memory. Frankly, what he'd already provided was phenomenal. But then, he was describing a woman. I've learned to keep my jealousy in check—Ducky just notices, and appreciates, the female of the species. It's no worse than me licking my chops when there's a Harrison Ford marathon on the tube or I catch a CSI rerun. We still only want to go home with each other. But he will catch the subtle nuances of a pretty woman and all but ignore an equally good-looking guy.

The _dramatis_ _personae_ didn't change, only the positions did. Evelyn returned to the corner, sitting on the other side of Charlie (Victoria wasn't about to give up her spot). Suzy Bailey sat off at a right angle, working on crochet she had tucked away in her gigantic bag. Gibbs was at the nurse's station, talking on the phone. Ducky and I were seated at another bank of chairs, across from Mrs. Bailey.

"How are you doing?" he asked quietly, resting his head against my temple.

"Hangin' in there. You?"

"Better than others," he sighed. "I'm sure Lily will be fine, but… poor Charlotte."

"Yeah. That kid has been through a lot." I looked over at the corner, were Victoria—just by being herself—was distracting and entertaining Charlie, and, to a degree, Evelyn. "I'm so glad she has your mom."

He smiled. "She couldn't love her more if they were related by blood."

_Related by blood_.

_Fran._

_Shut up. Just shut up._

I caught sight of the elevator and sucked in a breath. _Uh-oh_. Trouble was about to come to River City. "Ducky?"

"Yes?"

"You remember what we were saying about Mrs. Kemmelbacher's visit on Monday?" I murmured, a magazine hiding my face.

"Yes…?" Ducky looked apprehensive.

"Prepare for a repeat performance."

Grandmother Kemmelbacher—with two women trailing behind her who looked so much like her they had to be related—was striding down the hallway, sailing into port with canvas at full flutter and plowing into murky waters. Good thing we were outside surgery—we might need another suite or two before the evening was out.

Following the nurse's discreet point, Mrs. K walked over to our group, the younger women following behind. I had a sudden flash of _Star_ _Trek_—Spock's father walking along, his wife trailing exactly two steps behind. Gibbs was still talking on the phone, but he was watching our group—and not surreptitiously. Charlie had caught sight of her grandmother and did the same thing I had done, diving into the security of her book.

"Charlotte, dear. We just heard about Lily. I'm so very sorry."

_How the hell did they hear about her, anyway?_

Charlie stared into her book, silent. "Charlie," Ev said quietly. "Your grandmother is talking to you."

The book slowly lowered. I held my breath. "Thank you," she finally said.

"This is not the place for a little girl. You should come home with us—"

"No," Charlie said flatly, returning to her book.

"Charlotte—that's not a very nice tone of voice—but I can understand you're upset over your sister—"

"She's _not_ just my sister," Charlie said hotly. She all but threw her book down. "She's my _mother_ and you _hate_ that and you _hate_ _her_ and I wouldn't be surprised if you're the one who shot her!"

There was a chorus of, "Charlie!" "How could you—" "Sweetie!" and other overlapping words. Personally, I think the kid was saying what several of us were thinking.

The charge nurse glided over. "Is there a problem?"

"Just a—family disagreement," Mrs. K said with a glacial smile.

"I understand it's a very stressful time. We do have a private family room down the hall—" Code for 'knock it down a notch.'

"I'm sorry." Contrite, Charlie leaned against Ev for comfort.

"You really should come home with family, dear," one of the satellites suggested.

"I _am_ with my family."

"This isn't the time or place to discuss that, dear," the second floater said with a distressed frown.

"I didn't start it," Charlie said disdainfully, sounding more like a typical 9-year-old than I've ever heard.

"Charlotte." Victoria's voice was a gentle admonishment. Charlie looked up at her, wounded; surely her beloved Grandma wasn't on _their_ side…! "You shouldn't speak to your elders like that—" She arched an eyebrow that smug Mrs. Kemmelbacher to her side couldn't see and raised her voice slightly. "—even if they are flaming fools and imbeciles."

"Mother." It was a pro forma objection. From the twitching at the corners of Ducky's mouth I knew he was giving her a thumbs up.

"Well, they are!" She looked as innocent as fresh snow—if you didn't catch the glint in her eye. "Good gracious, you'd think they had never heard of Gertrude Stein!" she said almost pityingly.

There was a slight gasp from someone and I saw one of the still-unnamed/unknown women press her lips together and stare at the floor, hiding her amusement from the woman I was sure was her mother. Hmm. One of the robots was breaking free.

"Ah, yes. Gertrude Stein," I said with high drama. "How shocking. And let's not forget Patricia Cornwell. Joanna Russ." I combed through my memory. "Mary Renault. Jacqueline Woodson. Louise Fitzhugh." There were enough grandkids in the family, I was sure they'd recognize the last name or two (although, since Woodson is African-American, they might not have her books in the house—just a suspicion on my part, no concrete evidence). Sure enough, on the last name her jaw tightened to the point I could almost hear teeth crack. "Tallulah Bankhead. Ian McKellen." I jumped out of the author category; I'll take gay and lesbian actors for $500, Alex.

"They're not—they can't be—" she spluttered.

"Why not? Why can't they be? Because—" I gasped. "Because you liked what they created? Oh, _dear_." My voice dripped sarcasm like Niagara Falls.

All I did was throw gasoline on the fire. Mrs. Kemmelbacher was heading for a slow boil—and Gibbs was quietly moving our way. Good. I had no problem with someone hanging around who could slap her in leg irons. Her manners were almost gone. "I don't want this to get ugly—" (_Bullshit_.) "But with dear Lily—" (_Dear_ _Lily? BULLshit!)_ "—indisposed, someone needs to care for Charlotte—"

"My mom is taking care of me," Charlie said with pride. "Mommy Ev is _superb_."

"But she has no legal standing," Mrs. Kemmelbacher said in what can only be called a triumphant voice.

Charlie actually turned pale. She looked up at Evelyn, pupils so wide her eyes looked black. "Mommy?" she whispered.

But Evelyn, despite the emotional upheaval of the day, had a victorious smile of her own. "Lily and I went to an attorney months ago. We have power of attorney for each other for medical and financial decisions in the event of illness or incapacitation," she quoted. "And, in my case, matters of custody and child care."

_Yes! _I checked myself from pumping a fist in the air. Not seemly by half. Charlie's look was plainly, 'So _there_!'

"_I_ am Charlotte's grandmother! _I_ am a blood relation!"

"That's not Charlotte's fault." Victoria still had her sweet, innocent look in place. The first time they met, Victoria wasn't firing on all cylinders; today she was in overdrive and running on jet fuel. I'm sure Mrs. Kemmelbacher was confused as hell. Good.

"Lily will undoubtedly be in the hospital for quite a while. Long-term arrangements will have to be made." She wasn't giving up without one hell of a fight. "And—and if someone is trying to kill dear Lily—" How she missed the gasp and whimper from Charlie, I don't know, but I almost slapped her. Wish I had. "—Charlotte could be in danger, too. I should take her home, where she'll be safe—" She actually stepped forward. Oh, this was gonna get ugly.

"Don't worry, ma'am." Gibbs was still off to the side, making notes on his pad. "We have a safehouse arranged for Evelyn and Charlie."

That stunned everyone into silence. "S-safehouse?" Ev stammered.

"We don't know why it happened—yet." He was still focused on his notes. "But, yes—there's the possibility that whoever hurt Ms. McAllister—" He glanced up, letting the sentence die off. "You have—a history of disagreements with Ms. McAllister, don't you?" He fixed Mrs. Kemmelbacher with what I've heard his team call "the Gibbs stare." I've been on the receiving end of that look. Ain't fun.

"Well—well, I wouldn't say _disagreements_…"

"Taking her to court…" A glance at the notepad. "Seven times in the past year?" Hmm. Jethro Gibbs had been busy asking Ev questions, for sure. And I doubt he missed Charlie's accusation. Out of the mouths of babes…

"Well, that wasn't a _disagreement_—"

"I wouldn't call them invitations to tea parties, either." He cocked his head. "How did you discover Ms. McAllister was injured? Her name hasn't been released to the media—and you are _not_ next-of-kin." The infamous penetrating stare included her whole group.

Mrs. Kemmelbacher blushed. She actually _blushed_.

"My—my sister works in the ER here," the taller of the two younger women blurted.

"Evangeline!" Mrs. Kemmelbacher said sharply.

"Mother—I know she was just worried about Charlotte—" (Too bad she broke some big-time confidentiality rules. Bye-bye, job.)

Gibbs smiled. Oh, someone was in some _serious_ shit. I know that 'shark eat little fish' smile. "Why don't we go somewhere more…private?"

Mrs. Kemmelbacher looked scared—which proved she wasn't totally brain-dead. Gibbs took her elbow and gently steered her away from our group.

Charlie was still staring up at Evelyn. "Safehouse?" she whispered.

"Let's wait and talk to Agent Gibbs. I think there may be more to this than meets the eye," Ev said quietly.

Gibbs held a discussion away from us—during which Mrs. Kemmelbacher actually turned sort of gray-green and shrank about three inches.

I loved it. Color me malicious.

Mrs. K was obviously torn: she really, _really_ wanted to stay and try to wrest Charlie from our group—but then there was Gibbs. Gibbs of the granite jaw and steely gaze, who would go to the end of the rope to protect his family (Ducky) or those his family members hold dear (everyone else in the group). Self-preservation won out; she left, Charlie's aunts (?) trailing behind. He strolled back to our group with a tiny, satisfied smile on his face. I could have kissed him.

"Matthew!" Victoria grasped his arm when he came within range. "You chased that _nasty_ woman away. You're—you're divine!"

There was a faint snicker, though I don't know who made it. (Could have been me.) "Well—I figured there was enough going on…" Charlie was still staring at him, wide-eyed. He touched the tips of his fingers to her chin so she looked up at him. "Don't you worry, Miss Charlie. You aren't going to a safehouse. You're not going anywhere—except home with your mom." He winked at her. "Didn't think you needed that harridan hanging around here." Props for the language skills, Jethro.

"Grandma is right." Charlie beamed at him. "You are _divine_!"

/ / /

It was almost midnight before Lily was out of surgery and in recovery. The recovery charge nurse turned out to be an old golfing buddy of Ducky's (face it, Ducky has old buddies of every stripe around the freaking _planet_) and he was more than willing to look away when very-underage Charlie went in with Evelyn to sit with Lily for a while. We finally staggered off home at about 3 a.m. after Lily was conscious enough to talk to Charlie for a couple of minutes.

Suzy cheerfully agreed that driving home would be silly; quite the forward-thinking gal, she always kept an overnight bag in the station wagon ("Learned that lesson the first time I was snowbound."). We camped her in the upstairs spare bedroom; Charlie was torn between sleeping in Victoria's room where she always slept and staying close to her mom. Victoria solved the problem by saying she'd feel better if both of them stayed in her room, "So I can keep an eye on both of my precious girls." At that, it was Evelyn's turn to burst into tears. (A few years ago Ev dragged me to Pennsic, the SCA war. She slept like a log through midnight fests, fêtes, parties and drunken brawls. Victoria's snoring would be a cakewalk.)

Gibbs had left the hospital with the comment that he would see Ducky later. "And when I say later, Dr. Mallard, I mean after ten a.m. Preferably noon. If I see you any earlier, you'll be cooling your heels in one of your drawers." Ew.

I was sure I wouldn't sleep a wink. Wrong. If I had been at home, alone, I probably would have stared at the ceiling until wakeup time, even with Underfoot curled in my armpit to comfort me. But I had something better (sorry, Foot). I had Ducky. Ducky who held me close and stroked my back, lulling me into a semblance of sleep, who murmured unintelligible words to calm me when I work with a start, blood-soaked grass nightmare-fresh.

I got enough sleep to be functional in the morning. Well, semi-functional, anyway. Evelyn had awakened around five by habit, slipped off to the porch and left a whispered message for the school letting them know that Charlie would be absent for a day or two or more due to a family emergency. (She later told me she had crept out of and back into the bedroom without Victoria or Charlie even twitching.) Other than rousing when I jerked awake a couple of times, Ducky slept through the night and was still asleep when I gave up at about quarter to seven. I stumbled into the kitchen, figuring I'd start some sort of breakfast that could "keep" as people woke up—but discovered I'd been beaten to the punch. Suzy was sitting at the kitchen table, idly thumbing through the paper and sipping coffee. She had clearly pulled the first cup while the machine was doing its thing because the last drops were just falling into the pot. "Morning."

I sniffed cautiously. Something smelled good—something besides the coffee. "How can you be so alert?" I croaked.

"Years of practice." I stumbled over to the coffee pot and carefully poured out a half-full mug. This stuff was as black as night and smelled like I'd fallen into the roaster at The Daily Grind. "TDY. Cranky babies. Forty-one years with a semi-insomniac husband who often worked third shift. I can't sleep over four hours at a stretch, now. May as well be useful."

I inhaled deeply. "I think I love you," I said fervently. I threw in a generous glug of French Vanilla creamer; the color of the coffee barely changed. I blinked and added more until I was barely a quarter-inch from the rim and took an experimental sip… and got blasted off my feet. "Holy—_wow_!"

"Never had Navy coffee, eh?"

"I thought I had!" I gasped. Gibbs had made some snide comments about the coffee (aka paint stripper) at the Yard, saying Navy coffee wasn't as tough as Marine coffee. Well, the stuff they have down there is like weak tea compared to this pot. But this tasted fabulous on top of being a half a shade off of qualifying as espresso. (Ducky buys much better coffee than they serve at work, even though he drinks very little of it.) "Evelyn is going to steal you away from us."

"I'll teach her the trade secret," she smiled.

I figured nobody would fault my manners that day and started picking at the food Suzy had in the oven. "I quit. You're hired as the cook from here on out."

"Nobody in our house had the same schedule. Over the years I amassed a recipe file of things that would keep well in the oven for an hour or two—and then I discovered crock pots. I actually sent Rival a thank you note after I bought my first one." She sipped her coffee, her eyes above the rim looking amused.

"Well, this—" One was sort of a cross between a quiche and a casserole, the other kind of a breakfast Monte Cristo. "—is great."

That was Ducky's opinion when he joined us about half an hour later. He wasn't crazy enough to try the coffee, but did say, "Jethro would love this," in appreciation as he passed by on the way to the stove.

"You didn't even try it," Suzy teased. "How do you know he'd like it?"

He pointed to his eyebrows. "Singe marks."

By dribs and drabs the others joined us. After falling back asleep, Evelyn ended up the last at the table and was content with a cup of coffee. (After she put her eyes back in their sockets, she swore undying allegiance to Suzy.)

"That's all she ever has," Charlie said in mild disapproval. "Mommy chastises her with great frequency."

"Don't you mean castigates?" I teased, splitting hairs.

"Oh, no," she said solemnly. "Sometimes she smacks her a good one." She imitated a slap to the backside of the head and Ducky snorted faintly. I grinned into my coffee; yeah, never saw _that_ motion in his group.

Charlie and Ev, of course, wanted to go see Lily. Victoria—also of course—wanted to go wherever Charlie went. And Ducky wanted to poke his nose in as well (plus he probably wanted to make sure the waters were smooth for Ev and Charlie.) So after a truly incredible breakfast we all caravanned to the hospital.

Lily already had company. Following up on Gibbs' visit the night before, familiar faces—Agents McGee and DiNozzo—were in Lily's room getting her version of what had happened. And, joy of joys, Lily was in a regular room. No "family members only" restriction from ICU, no two-visitor maximum (though we did have a mild squawk over Charlie's age—which was quickly dealt with by a call downstairs to Dr. Gallanos (it pays to have friends)).

Where Ducky had been a font of knowledge on the shooter, Lily had noticed little details about the car. Ducky was right—it was green. "Dark. Forest green. Underlying paint, get the light right and it looks purple. Glossy. Four door. Olds. Cutlass Ciera, I'm pretty sure. Dent on the left bumper, rear. No more than three years old. No bumper stickers. Nothing hanging on the mirror. Virginia plates, only caught the numbers—666, made me laugh, thinking of certain people we know." Her smile faded.

McGee was the note-taker of the two. "Between you and Ducky, we've got everything but her blood type and dress size."

"Seven, tall."

Everyone turned to stare at Ducky, who blushed faintly.

"Seven?" Lily repeated, smiling again. Ducky is good at that—getting people out of the frowns, I mean.

"Just a guess on my part…"

"What, no blood type?" DiNozzo asked.

Ducky gave him a quelling look. "I'm not _that_ good."

I wanted to stay, but it was obvious Lily was tiring. Mrs. Bailey promised to pry Victoria away in no more than fifteen minutes and Ducky and I headed out, knowing the two members of the group who most belonged there would be the last to leave.

"Will you be all right?" Our cars were parked side by side, but I know he would have been chivalrous enough to walk me to the van even if we were a mile apart.

"Hey. I'm not the one recovering from the removal of two bullets." I jerked my head toward the hospital. "So. Is this Reston PD or NCIS jurisdiction?"

He frowned. "Normally I would say Reston. But the fact that Anthony and Timothy were here this morning makes me feel that Jethro is pushing the 'innocent victim shot instead of NCIS's medical examiner' school of thought. While I think he is incorrect in that line of pursuit…" He pursed his lips. "I am somewhat comforted by the idea that they—_we_—are involved. I am sure the police will be happy to hand it off to NCIS and put their tight budget dollars to work elsewhere."

"I'm glad, too." I slipped my arms around him and hugged him, hard. "But just in case Gibbs is right—for god's sake, be careful."

"He's not," he assured me. His smile faded. "Though who would want to hurt our Lily…" He shook his head. "Drive safely, dear. Call me when you get to the store."

"I will." I watched him drive away and couldn't keep the cold feeling out of my already twisted gut:

_What if Gibbs __**is**__ right?_

* * *

-5-


	6. Chapter 6: While

**CHAPTER SIX**

**While**

* * *

Hospital, work, home, hospital, home. Repeat.

The next few days were a gentle blur. Lily was well on the mend; projected release date, Saturday. Only her insistence got Charlie to school on Friday. Super Scholar was willing to kiss off summer school, gymnastics class, even computer camp but Lily was having none of it. "If this caused you to throw away your studies I'd feel worse than I already do," she said mournfully.

Charlie looked remorseful for about fifteen seconds, then narrowed her eyes. "Do you give frequent flyer miles with your guilt trips?"

Behind me I heard a whispered, "How old is this kid?" It was Thursday evening. Gibbs had brought by the updated BOLO to see if it sparked anything for Lily. So far, nothing.

Ducky chuckled softly. "Nine."

"You sure about that?"

"Reasonably."

Most everyone at the store remembered Evelyn—and fondly, too—so they were keenly interested in what was going on with Lily. I had sent Valerie a text message in the wee hours of the morning when we first left the hospital, just a quick _Will be late and explain when I get there._ When I finally did show up and told her the whole ugly tale, she had ended up crying like it was _her_ beloved in the hospital.

Ducky kept the BOLO on his desk at home, adding a second, more artistic version on Friday night. Every time I'd pass his desk I'd stop, staring at the papers.

_Who are you?_

_You look familiar… the eyes, the amused smirk. But there's something not quite correct and I can't put my finger on it and it's driving me crazy. Who are you? I don't know… but if we met up on the street, I'd know you._

We muddled through the end of the week. Victoria was loathe to let Charlie and Ev go home; only the fact that they returned each day and she got to visit Lily with them kept her even slightly in check.

Saturday started off spectacularly. Lily was due to be released that afternoon, so Victoria agreed to stay home so that it was easier to transport her. Ducky and I managed to get the greenhouse put up in the back yard (I am nominating the writer of the instructions for a Pulitzer prize; never once did we stop and say, "That doesn't make sense" or "What the hell do they mean, there IS NO part R/102 flange!"). I have high hopes for our married life together; we built something jointly without killing each other. Next hurdle: a full-fledged Christmas, not just the toe in the water from the year before. (That would be the make-or-break; I could be divorced before I get married.) Ducky and Victoria spent the rest of the morning getting the plants in the greenhouse in order while I did my Stepford Wife imitation, getting caught up on laundry and dishes.

At lunch, Ev called. Lily's release was pushed back. She had a slight fever (only 99.1) so the hospital was being cautious. Damn. Oh, well; I had already started dinner, fortunately it was something that wasn't overly welcome home party-ish, so we wouldn't be depressed eating it. Ducky and I decided to keep it from Mother until later, no sense in ruining her day.

"Can I be of help?" Ducky asked, drying his hands.

"Gimme a kiss?"

"Gladly." I never ask for a kiss if I have something in danger of going from browned to burned; we tend of get distracted. We lost at least ten minutes while the onions were on slow sauté. "Now… is there anything I can do of a more _practical_ nature?"

"I call that practical," I grinned. "Let's see. Stop off at the library and check out the illustrated Kama Sutra?"

"Already have it on the shelf."

Really? I hadn't seen it. Hmm. "Well... if you _really_ want to be _practical_… a run to the market? Short list, I promise."

"Milk, for certain," he said with a small shudder.

"Definitely." I scribbled a quick list. "Anything that looks good for tomorrow, I'm open to ideas." We were crossing fingers that Lily's release would only be delayed a day.

"I shall return—" Quick kiss. "Shortly." Another quick kiss and he ducked out the kitchen door.

I settled Victoria in front of the television with her favorite game snack, Scotch and peanut brittle (don't ask), and puttered around the house taking care of this and that. Mrs. McKirk from next door rang the bell, asking to borrow two cups of sugar. I felt like I'd stepped into a sitcom, but willingly scooped it into a ziplock bag for her. "I was so sure I'd bought another bag of sugar last week," she sighed. "Thank you, my dear." I went back to my puttering. About five minutes later, another ring at the door. Eggs? Vanilla?

Fran.

My blood pressure skyrocketed and my stomach twisted itself inside out even as I forced a smile onto my face. "Hi. Fran, right?"

Her own smile was nervous. "Yes. Right. Is, uh, is Dr. Mallard home?"

"He'll be right back. He just ran to the market."

Her face fell. "Oh."

She started to turn away but I was faster. I grasped her wrist and pulled her gently into the foyer. "Come on in. You're going to keep missing him for the next year at this rate."

Her eyes widened. "No—"

"Yes," I insisted. _God, let's just get this over with_. "Come in." I won the battle of wills and shut the door behind her.

As I led her through the living room, her eyes widened in surprise. Can't say I blame her; Victoria was perched on the sofa, absorbed in the videotape of that week's wrestling match. Loudly, enthusiastically absorbed. "Kill him!" she yelled and Fran actually gasped.

"Mrs. Mallard loves wrestling," I whispered. I raised my voice. "Good match, Mother?"

She looked up, smiling brightly. "Wonderful!"

"Great. This is Fran, she's a friend of Donald's. We'll just wait in his office."

"Cassandra, darling?" She reached over and tugged my sleeve. "Could you be a dear—" she 'whispered.' She held up her empty glass.

"Sure." Lotta ice, lotta soda, splash of Scotch. She'd happily drink it neat, like Ducky, but I've seen her zonked out of her gourd a couple of times. (At least she's a happy drunk. (Very happy.)) I held up a glass to Fran. "Drink?"

She swallowed hard. "No. No, thank you." Probably a good idea, given the conversation I knew was coming. Me? I was going to have a double something. And have a drink waiting for Ducky. (I was sure he'd need it,)

Fran was still glancing back toward Victoria as we headed toward Ducky's 'office,' the back area of the huge living room. "That's… Dr. Mallard's mother?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yep. Victoria Mallard. Ninety-nine and still kickin' hard. And is just now mastering the art of email and instant messaging," I said, not without some pride.

Fran looked suitably impressed. "I have a coworker who's only a few years younger than I am and is just hopeless on the computer."

"That's oddly comforting. Sure I can't get you—" I lifted my glass.

"I don't drink," she blurted. She turned fire red. "I mean—I don't—"

"You don't need to explain anything." I hoped I sounded affable, not irritated. Hey, I'd spent a week worrying that I'd killed an ex-lover in an alcoholic fog. Nobody needs to explain not drinking to me. "If it makes you uncomfortable—" I moved to set aside my drink, Midori and soda on ice.

"No, no, nothing like that." (Good. I was enjoying my drink.) She gave me a lopsided smile. "I just don't like it. Maybe a wine cooler or a Mojito once in a while—"

Ah, yes. Wine coolers. My generation had Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine; hers has wine coolers and funky martinis. Hey—beats moonshine. "Well, I've got iced tea, lemonade, sodas—"

"Diet Coke?"

"Coming up." We kept a stash of them on hand for Jimmy Palmer. He's mildly diabetic and would rather blow his sugar allowance elsewhere.

She followed me into the kitchen like a little puppy dog. "You have a lovely house."

"Thanks. It's Dr. Mallard's, actually. We only just became engaged—" (God, has it only been a week?)

"Congratulations," she said automatically.

"Thank you." I pulled a can from the back of the fridge. "Ice?"

"I'm good, thanks. Can is fine."

We headed back to the 'office,' Isabeau following silently behind. Ducky finds Izzy's transfer of affections hysterical; he tolerates the dogs only because his mother adores them. He had figured once she was no longer there (for whatever reason) he'd shuffle them off to new homes. Apparently Izzy is the smartest of the four and was putting in her bid with the new regime ahead of time. (Okay, she's my favorite. I admit it.)

"So." Fran coughed nervously. "Are you, um, a doctor? Too?"

I snorted. "I am the last person you want at your bedside. Come down with a broken leg and I'll say, 'Stop whining. Walk it off.'" She laughed; the ice was slightly broken. "No, I own a bookstore."

She gasped. "I love bookstores! There was a rumor one of my favorite stores was going to close—Vromans, in Pasadena? People came out in droves."

"I've been there, I love that store! They had a great kid's section."

"And I live at Larry Edmunds. I couldn't believe it when Book City closed down—"

"Wait, wait—the one on Hollywood Boulevard? With the skinny staircase to the upper floor?"

She nodded. "Last year." She sighed. "At least there's still Acres."

"Acres? Acres of Books?" When she nodded I burst out laughing. "Oh, my god. Talk about small—I've known Jackie and Phil since forever!"

Ducky wasn't gone long—we just needed milk for his tea, having discovered the carton in the fridge had turned ugly between breakfast and lunch, and four or five other can't-do-withouts. But he was gone long enough that Fran and I were reaching the limits of polite chit-chat. (Our conversation about bookstores had carried us through half of our wait.) Under normal conditions, I'd've asked, 'so, what brings you to Reston?'—but I knew what had brought her and I didn't want that subject opened without Ducky there. I could hear him come in through the kitchen door—the jingle of the café curtain rings on the window gave him away. I heard him open and shut the fridge door, then:

"Sorry to be so long, dearest. But they had a lovely roast on special, I thought the girls might—oh!" He stopped in the doorway as he caught sight of Fran.

"Hey, honey, remember I mentioned a Fran Peterson stopped by the other day and wanted to talk to you?" I said smoothly. I flipped a nonchalant hand toward Fran. "Fran Peterson."

Ducky stepped forward and held out a hand. "Miss Peterson. My pleasure. What brings you to Reston?"

I could see the hand she slipped into his was shaking. "I'm going to get started on the dishes—" I stood up from my side of the loveseat.

Fran looked even more panicked, something I didn't think was possible. (Poor Ducky looked utterly baffled. He'd never had quite this reaction from anyone (but particularly a woman) before.) "Could you? Stay? Please?" she stammered.

Goodie. "Uh. Yeah, sure." I guess I was the closest she had to a friend or champion in the room. Taking my drink with me I sat cross-legged on Ducky's desk chair, forcing the two of them to sit on the small loveseat. Izzy made her circuitous route up to my lap, where I sat blindly combing my fingers through her fur and waiting for the world to fall apart.

Ducky shot me a quick "Hunh?" look and turned back to Fran. "How can I help you, my dear?" He sat at an angle, facing her.

She swallowed hard. "Ah—" She licked her lips and coughed, clearly nervous. "Sorry." She took a sip of her Coke and promptly choked on it.

"Easy, easy—" Ducky cautioned.

"I'm fine" she finally managed. Ducky's look was friendly and encouraging but she still looked scared. Couldn't really blame her. He waited patiently; finally she said, "It's… complicated."

"Take your time," he said gently.

"You… used to live in California," she said hesitantly.

"A couple of times," he said with a smile.

"You—ah—knew my mother?"

_You could say that._

"I've known a number of Petersons over the years."

"Oh—that's—that's her married name. You would have known her as Mary Carpenter?" She swallowed hard again and searched his face.

He though hard and finally shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't recall—" Ooh. Awkward.

"Mary Ellen? Marielle?" I was afraid she'd start to cry.

His face cleared. "Oh! Of course! Marielle—" He broke off with an almost gasp. "Oh, good heavens." His smile grew to an absolute grin. "Francesca? Oh—the last time I saw you, you were, oh, my, three? Four months old?" He gestured so that his hands were barely a foot apart. "Fran. Francesca—" He broke it into syllables, drawing her name out. "And, if I remember correctly, two middle names? Such an enormous name for such a tiny little baby."

Fran looked as shocked as I felt—but probably for a different reason. I could see it in her eyes: _You saw me? You knew me? You __left__ me? _For me, it was shocked relief tinged with anger—clearly Ducky _didn't_ know he had a child. Marielle had kept this from him.

"How _is_ your mother?"

Fran's eyes dropped to the can in her hands. "Mother… well… health-wise, she's—good. She's fine. But—she's been institutionalized for quite some time." Her words were matter of fact. "Since I was ten."

"Oh—oh, Francesca, I'm so very sorry." He sighed. "Your mother was… fragile… when I knew her."

"Fragile?"

He hunted for the right word. "Vulnerable."

"Bipolar?" she translated.

At first he was taken aback. Then he let out a slow breath. "Quite possibly."

"The whole time I was growing up, it never hit me that everyone else's mother wasn't like mine. My friends thought she was the cool mom. One time—she stayed up for something like six, seven days doing something mysterious in my room. She wouldn't let me in, wouldn't let Dad in, I had to sleep on the couch the whole week. Finally she opened the door—she had painted the entire room: walls, ceiling, floor. The most incredible mural you can imagine. The floor was the ground and the river with these tiny fish of every color, fairies and elves darting through the grass, horses and knights and princesses and dragons and unicorns on the walls, then it merged up to the ceiling where it finally became night…"

Dang. And I thought my mother was "different" because she turned the it-keeps-coming-back-after-four-repair-jobs crack in the plaster of the kitchen divider into a cherry blossom tree with a flock of birds and butterflies. Working an hour or two a night after work it had taken her six months to do it and another six to fix the errors that only she saw.

"It's still there. I can't imagine painting it over…" She smiled a little wistfully. "And then there was the inevitable crash. She slogged through the next months, sleeping most of the time, barely talking… As time went on, the highs were sharper and shorter, the depressions deeper and longer… and… now…" She shook her head. "She floats through life like a ghost. If you put her in the TV room she will sit and watch whatever is on and pay no attention to it. She's lost in her own world. She eats, she sleeps—she never talks. She never makes a sound. She fell down the stairs, broke her shoulder—and never made a peep."

"Not catatonia… not hysteria, it wasn't a sudden onset—" Ducky was slipping into clinical mode.

"They've tried everything. Drugs, diet, ECT—" I winced reflexively. "Nothing has worked. The only thing that remotely interests her is drawing. Drawing, painting, anything like that. They try talking to her about the pictures—it's like a one-woman art show. But she says nothing. Nothing." She drew in a shaky breath, turning her head away. "She doesn't even notice when I'm there."

"Oh, Francesca…" He reached over and patted her hand. "I am so sorry."

She turned on him. "Why did you leave?" she suddenly cried. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth—but it was too late, the words were already out.

Ducky looked confused. "Why did I leave?" he repeated. "Why—? I, I went back to England for a year or so, moved back, decided to stay—"

"Why didn't you look for her again?" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh, god, oh, _god_! This isn't how—" She shook her head, a couple of stubborn tears flying from the corners of her eyes into her hair.

Ducky looked even more confused. And I felt like a fifth wheel. No—worse, a voyeur. I shot a look toward the TV end of the room but Victoria was engrossed with even the commercials on the tape. "Francesca," he said carefully. "I think you're reading more into—"

"She—she never told you?" The tears she had been fighting spilled over. "Oh, my god…" She dug in her huge shoulder bag. "I can't believe she…"

I almost stopped breathing. Fran handed Ducky a manila envelope that was a little worse for wear: faded, foxed corners, a ring stain from a coffee mug on one corner—it had plainly been around for years, and looked like it had been riding around in her purse for one or two on its own. Ducky looked at her, uncertainly, then glanced toward me. I dropped my eyes, suddenly transfixed with Isabeau's collar.

Ducky unwound the string and opened the envelope, slipping out a stiff piece of paper. (_It looks like a car registration_, I thought desperately. _Yeah. Right_.) Ducky read it, top to bottom. And read it again. He must have read it six or seven times, going through every possible emotion: confusion, shock, a little anger—and deep, growing sorrow. I desperately wanted to teleport to another room, another city, another planet; where's Scotty when you really need him?

"This wasn't how I planned to tell you, I just—" Fran stared at him. "You're my father." She managed to keep her voice steady.

Ducky sighed heavily. "Oh, Francesca." He shook his head slowly back and forth, still clearly in shock over what he had read. He tore his eyes from the paper; he looked like _he_ was about to cry. And who could blame him? "I'm so very, _very_ sorry…"

Now that it was finally out, she looked braver. Calmer. "It's okay. I understand, she didn't tell you—"

"No, no—" He looked even more anguished. "I mean—I'm _not_ your father."

* * *

-6-


	7. Chapter 7: You're

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**You're**

* * *

Fran stared at Ducky, shocked. "What?" she finally managed.

"Oh… my dear…" He reached over and touched her arm. "I am so _very_ sorry."

"But—" She looked stricken.

He sighed heavily. "Your mother and I lived in the same apartment building. It was a small place, something left over from the forties. Quite charming in an offbeat way… There were only a dozen or two of us living there and the owner had a fondness for monthly pot lucks. We'd celebrate a holiday, birthday—sometimes she'd make up a holiday just to throw a party. It was rather like a family. Your mother worked at one of the studios—she had moved from a little town in the South, decided working behind the scenes was better than being the star d'jour. I regarded her as—well—the younger sister I never had," he said gently. He gave her a slight smile.

"You're not—you never—she—" Fran stammered.

Ducky actually blushed. "No," he said softly.

Time ticked by; probably only a minute, it felt like an hour. "But why…? Why did she say you…?

His smile became a rueful one. "Contrary to popular belief, I can't read minds."

_Bullshit_, I thought with a wry smile at my drink. Ducky cocked an eyebrow at me; damn straight he reads minds. Mine, anyway.

"Do you—" She swallowed hard. "Do you know who my father _is_?"

God, did I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"Oh, Francesca, dear…" Ducky looked miserable. "Your mother found it necessary to—" He searched for the right word.

"Lie," she said bluntly.

He sighed deeply. "I cannot betray her confidence. She needs to be the one to tell—"

"She can't." Fran held out her hands in appeal. "My father—my adoptive father—the court issued a new birth certificate when he adopted me. I didn't know until a couple of years ago that I was even adopted, that he wasn't my birth father. I was helping him pack the house into storage so they could do some major repair work. There was a box of papers on the top shelf of the bedroom closet—I had seen my birth certificate—my new one—when I got my license, I never clued in to the fact that my birth certificate was filed when I was a year and a half. Later on, when friends were getting married and having children, I figured it was just a matter of a paperwork snafu. Or because I was born a year before they were married or something. But we were emptying the house, there had been some damage from the '94 Northridge quake—"

(Can you imagine living where they date and name a natural disaster? Okay, hurricanes I can understand, but earthquakes? Pass.)

"—and the neighbor two doors down got fumigated for termites, the ones that escaped moved over to our place—" She was talking faster and faster, almost babbling. "The quake damage wasn't bad, we never bothered to fix it, but it was an easy track to the foundation, they had to tear out some of the walls, redo a lot of the floors—" (Crap. Hope the mural wasn't on the list.) "—we put everything in storage, I was boxing things in the spare room, I had shoved all my high school memorabilia in the closet, I pulled down a box from the top shelf, I didn't see the box behind it, it fell, papers went _everywhere_—" she gasped for air.

"Slow down," Ducky cautioned quietly. "You don't have to rush. We have plenty of time."

She took a couple of steadying breaths. "There were pictures. From—back then. The 70s. Mementoes. A—a 45 record, some band I'd never even heard of, _Mullholland Curve_?" Ducky snorted faintly. "And—my birth certificate." She tried to smile and failed. "With… your name on it." Her shoulders slumped. "This isn't _at all_ how I imagined it would be," she muttered. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not," Ducky said with certainty. "Oh, to be sure, there are some pieces that are heartbreaking." He reached out and tipped her chin up. "What has happened to your mother. That you found out you were adopted in such a sudden, shocking manner. That you found—and lost—your father all in the same moment," he listed. "But I've reconnected with someone I haven't seen in almost thirty years! I never would have thought it possible. And _that_ is a wonderful thing. There is a part of me that wishes it could have been true—because I would be proud to be your father." I'm sure he didn't mean to, but that broke her again and the tears fell—again. "But I would be just as proud to call you my friend," he said with a firm smile. "I _despise_ it when people say, 'we're just friends.' I hold friendship _very_ dear."

I'm sure he gave her the invisible 'oh, come here and cry on my shoulder' cue because that's precisely what she did. Now I _really_ felt like a Peeping Thomasina. I wiggled my legs; Izzy slithered to the floor and I cautiously slipped off the chair. Ducky gave me a questioning look; I held my hand up in a 'sit, sit' motion and managed to leave the room silently.

In the kitchen I set the kettle on the burner. Getting together with Ducky had reinforced something I'd taken in by osmosis, a 'lesson' learned at my mother's knee: a cup of hot tea can fix _anything_.

Mug of Earl Gray for Ducky, peppermint for me (so far the herbalist guide recommending peppermint or chamomile (blech) for stomach woes was dead wrong)—I took a guess that Fran would be a jasmine tea drinker, if anything. Worth a shot.

He _does_ read minds. Just as I was dumping the tea leaves in the collection bucket (they're good for the garden), he came into the kitchen, lightly guiding Fran by a hand between her shoulders. "Nothing like freshly brewed tea." He peered around the kitchen. "Is there any more cake?" He was being extremely jovial.

"You know there is."

"You must try this…" Ducky bustled her over to the kitchen table and dished up three slices of cake. Either she drinks diet sodas because she likes them (ick) or was now in the mood to throw her sugar level out the window because she willingly took the plate he handed her.

And I was right about the tea. "Jasmine. My favorite." She managed a smile.

"What is not cured by tea will be by chocolate," Ducky said wisely. (Gets my vote.)

After the emotional upheaval a not long ago, it was nice to lose ourselves in idle chitchat over cake and tea. "Where do you work?" "I Sing the Body Electric. Special effects… "Named for Bradbury?" "Mm-hmm. Oh, next time you're in California, there's this new tea shop in Culver City…" "We _must_ take you to Hippy Gypsy before you head back." So forth and so on. Interestingly enough, Fran wasn't the least bit grossed-out by Ducky being a medical examiner; far from it, she spoke highly of several members of the Los Angeles Coroner's Office who had let her observe several autopsies so that the bodies she helped craft for _Black Dawn_ (another crappy movie with great makeup and effects; she thanked me for the compliment and agreed with my assessment) would be accurate. "Pictures from a _Gray's Anatomy_ book just didn't cut it," she said. (Ducky remembered both men from when he last lived in L.A. Of course.)

Okay, we're a weird bunch. We can sit around a table sharing tea and cake and talk shop—literally _body_ shop—and nobody thinks it odd. I was actually starting to be disappointed that Fran _wasn't_ Ducky's daughter—and feeling ashamed for my jealousy and fears.

Eventually we wound our way back to the original topic of the day. "How did you find me after all these years?"

"Well… I tried Google." She smiled faintly. "I was surprised how many Mallards there are, especially in England. So I fumbled around for a while and got nowhere. A friend of mine went through a big _Roots_ kind of thing a few years back. Her parents split up when she was young; after her mom died, she realized she knew almost nothing about her family history. She tried doing it on her own, but ran into the same problems I had. But her sister is in some sort of email loop across the country—fans of some TV show, I think. But one of the members is a genealogist and my friend—Marla—recommended her very highly. I figured it was worth paying someone to do it right—I sure wasn't getting anywhere. It took her a while to find you—but once she did, the rest of the family history just fell into place." She gave us a rueful smile. "Too bad it's all wrong."

"I have far more friends as extended family than I do blood relations," Ducky said slowly. "Sometimes family is what you craft."

"I didn't even look for you for over a year." Fran stared into her mug. "Dad… I mean, he's great. He's a great dad, he's always been there for me, for Mom, and—well—I didn't want to hurt him. But I wanted to _know._ I waited partly because, well, part of me felt like I was betraying him. Some guys—some guys would have given up by now. It's been twenty years. She doesn't talk to anyone. Ever. She doesn't acknowledge _anyone_. She'll go where you walk her, continue what you start her doing… and if you put a pencil or paintbrush or charcoal in her hand, she'll draw or paint until the lights go out. That's the only time she shows any animation."

"But she doesn't talk—at all?" It had been a _long_ time since my _Intro to Psych_ class, so I was having a hard time grasping this one.

She shook her head. "Not a word."

Meaning, she wouldn't be able to ID Fran's father even if she wanted to. "Did your ask your dad? Abut the birth certificate, I mean?"

"I did." She looked a little puzzled. "First he said, 'I don't know where he is. And if she felt it would be good for you to know him, she would have taken care of that long ago. Let the past stay in the past.' And when I asked him again, later, he said, 'I don't want to talk about it without your mother here. The subject is closed.' That's the only time he's ever talked to me like that. I was… shocked."

He had to be talking about Fran's real father. From what little he had said, Ducky had looked out for Marielle, tried to protect her—to the point that she had put his name down as the father of her child, and done so without even telling him. Nobody could think it would be bad for a child to know Ducky; far from it. "Does he know you started looking?" I asked.

She nodded. "After I got the family tree—well… it wasn't enough. I wanted more. I—" She looked embarrassed. "I hired a private investigator. One who specializes in—in adoptees finding birth parents."

"That's when you told your dad?" I was carrying the conversational ball; Ducky was carefully studying the pattern on his plate.

She gave me a wry look. "Not exactly. Dad wasn't paying attention when he opened the mail. He read the update letter from the investigator."

I winced. Ouch. That's gonna leave a mark.

"He was upset. Really, _really_ upset. I kept telling him it wasn't that I didn't love him, I just wanted to _know_—he kept trying to talk me out of it, argued, pleaded, blackmailed—"

"Blackmailed?" Ducky echoed, startled.

"Well—he told me if Mom knew, she'd be so hurt. Looking back on it—I think—" She shook her head. "No. I _know_ he knows the truth, that the name on my birth certificate is a lie." She smiled faintly. "Maybe he was trying to protect Mom—and me."

"No maybe about it," Ducky said firmly. He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm sure of it.'

"Now I'm back to square one." She shook her head.

"At least you have a couple of new friends to keep you company." I was channeling my inner Pollyanna.

She gave a small laugh. "I'm surprised you want me around, after the way I've been—been stalking you."

"Oh, not stalking—" Ducky started.

"Did you call here a couple of times?" I said over him. I kept my voice conversational; after all, I'd seen her in the vicinity several times. Stalking was a close cousin.

"More than a couple," she admitted. "Every time someone answered… I chickened out and hung up." She looked at me, a slightly pleading look. "I swear, when we met at the market—it was purely by accident. When you opened the door the other day, it took me a minute to recognize you." She laughed, a self-deprecating, almost mocking sound. "I almost fainted from shock."

"That's two of us," I muttered.

The sound of toenails clicking on the hardwood floor made me look up. Victoria, her canine entourage behind her, entered the kitchen. "Donald!" She looked utterly distraught. She stopped short at the doorway. "Lily?" She stared at Fran. "Oh, oh, my darling Lily!"

"No, Mother," Ducky said gently. "This is Francesca. She's the daughter of an old friend of mine."

She stared at Fran intently. "Not—not Lily?"

Her confusion was understandable. Lily and Fran could easily be cousins or even sisters. They looked more like siblings than my two nieces (even before Sharon took to the black hair dye).

"I'm so glad." Her brow wrinkled and she looked like she was going to cry. "Lily was shot, you know."

Fran looked shocked. "No. No, I didn't." She looked from Ducky to me with an,_ oh, shit, now what do I do?_ look.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. "It was nasty Mr. Eller who hurt her."

Hunh? I thought her favorite suspect was Mrs. K. (My favorite, too.)

Fran looked at Ducky uneasily. "Mother, Mr. Eller didn't hurt Lily, he didn't shoot Lily," he said in gentle patience.

"Of course he did," she insisted. "He's a spy," she said with a firm, sage nod.

Ah, yes. The birdwatcher. I pushed away from the table. "Oh, he's not a spy," I said good-naturedly. "He's a birdwatcher." I slipped an arm around her waist and turned her back out of the kitchen. "Or he could be flirting with you."

She looked up at me in shock. "I shall _never_ betray my country!"

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fran looking at us in fascination. "You go, girl."

Victoria stopped and looked at me, confused. "Go where?"

"Go here." I led her back to the living room. "So. What would you like to watch now?"

She looked around, puzzled. "What is today?"

"Saturday."

After a moment, confusion became shock. "But—Charlotte should be here!"

"She will be. In just a couple of hours. She and Evvie are at the hospital."

She looked relieved. "Oh. Oh, of course." She looked over my shoulder. "I don't want to lie down!"

"Nobody said you have to. It's barely two. And you don't have to take a nap if you don't want to." I let her steady herself on my arms as she sat down. "So. You want to watch Jeopardy?"

She pouted. "No. I want something… something fun!"

"No problem. Let's see…" I rattled off titles from the shelf of videos and DVDs. She finally opted for _the Wizard of Oz._ (Hey, I had nightmares about flying monkeys for years, but she's made of sterner stuff than I.) "Any 'druthers' for tea? We're having spaghetti for dinner."

She clapped her hands in glee over the spaghetti. "Oh, my. Could I—could I have an éclair?"

"You bet." I had picked up a half dozen the night before.

"And—and macaroons?"

I still had time to whip up a batch. "Sure."

"And—oh, that lovely sandwich Matthew had the other night."

My stomach lurched. After McGee and DiNozzo interviewed Lily, Gibbs had come by Friday night with what I called the non-BOLO sketch. A sketch artist, someone who specialized in portraits, had taken the BOLO alert and given the woman more personality, more life instead of the 'round, oval or triangular face?' click and drag Mr. Potato Head version. Ducky said the artist had nailed it. Gibbs had stayed late and we had ended up running to the deli for sandwiches and Gibbs had had— "A—a Reuben?" I stammered.

"Such a delightful name."

"I'll—ah—see if Donald can go out again." The woman has a cast iron stomach lined in titanium. Just thinking about that menu was giving my stomach the old heave-ho.

"Thank you, dear." She gave me a peck on the cheek.

I wandered back into the kitchen. "Mother would like a Reuben for tea," I said formally.

"Plus spaghetti for dinner? Not bloody likely."

"Oh, come on." I slipped back onto my chair. "She's the only one in the house who never has indigestion."

"True," he admitted.

"Besides—"

"She's ninety-nine, let her have what she wants and enjoy herself," he sing-song quoted back at me.

"Well, it's true," I defended myself.

Fran was smiling, listening to our banter. "Your mother is delightful."

"She is," I said quickly. I love her to pieces. Especially now that she's put the baby kick to rest.

Fran stared at her plate, scraped clean. (Ducky makes a killer chocolate cake.) "I guess I'd better get out of your hair," she sighed.

"I'm so sorry that things turned out as they did. Not to have finally met you—but that you were hurt in what happened," Ducky said.

"You won't…" She trailed off. (No, honey, he won't.) "I'll see if Dad might spill the beans once I tell him where I've been. He just thinks I'm back here on business."

"Fran—" Ducky started.

"Don't worry, Dr. Mallard, I won't make you the guilty party in any way."

"Please. Ducky," he said automatically. "Francesca… I know this is something you very much want to find out. But your mother plainly had her reasons for keeping things… close. Please. Think very, _very_ hard before you proceed."

She nodded. "I will. I promise," she said after a long, thoughtful pause. She looked more 'settled' than she ever had in the short time I'd known her, despite the fact that the news hadn't been what she had wanted to hear. "Thanks. For the tea and sympathy. And chocolate cake."

"Quite welcome for all of the above." We all stood up. "The tea and cake may not always be there—but any time you need a sympathetic ear—" He held out his hands.

She took them and squeezed them lightly. "Thanks." She managed a smile. "I guess I sort of found an uncle instead of a father."

"I would be delighted to be 'Uncle Ducky' to you." He gave her a light hug as we walked toward the door. "If I hadn't lost touch with your mother, I would have been all these years."

"What happened?"

"Oh… I went back to England, was there for almost a year and a half. I kept in touch with your mother—" He stopped short. My Ducky-radar told he me was censoring his answer and rewriting his script. "I decided to come back for good. My old apartment was vacant again, I moved back—and, lo and behold, Marielle had had a baby while I was gone! I did feel guilty, not being here, but she had many friends at the apartment house, extended family, really. And the manageress—oh, she just doted on you. What was her name…?" He stopped at the front door, forefinger tapping his lips. Suddenly he laughed. "Maxine! Maxine Arthur, of course."

Fran laughed roundly, a welcome sound. "Auntie Max! I remember her! I don't remember living in the apartment, but she used to baby sit me all the time. She had these old trunks full of fancy dresses and costumes, I'd play dress-up and she'd do my makeup—she's the one who got me interested in the business. God, I haven't thought about her in _years_. I haven't seen her since… grade school." I could see the wheels turning_. Auntie Max will know who my father is. I'll track her down and get the answer._

"Maxine and I almost came to blows over who would be allowed to watch you," Ducky said gravely. But his eyes danced. I don't think he saw the 'ah-ha' flashing in her eyes.

"Nobody—nobody harassed Mom over being 'an unwed mother?'" Fran asked with a melodramatic twist at the end.

"Good heavens, far from it. Many of the tenants had lived there for decades, had been with Maxine in her stage days and movies; it really was more of a family than anything else. There were other tenants in their twenties and thirties… but your mother, more than the others, was adopted as a surrogate child or grandchild—in some cases, great-grandchild," he laughed. "They weren't upset in the least. I'm sure several thought of horsewhipping the young man—" He broke off, embarrassed.

"You won't…?" Fran trailed off. "No. You won't."

Ducky looked up at her. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

Won't. Not can't; won't. Part of me can't blame him. But the bigger part thinks he should say, _oh, screw it_ and tell her everything.

"I'll live." She gave him a shy smile. "I'm glad I finally got to meet you, regardless."

"As am I."

I accepted her hug a little guiltily. I'd thought some unkind things about this poor girl. "I wish I'd had the courage to come over when I first came to town."

"I'm just worried the hotel bill will bankrupt you," I said.

"Company suite at the Millennia." I managed not to gasp. "I really _am_ here on business. Business plus a vacation. Cal understood why I was coming out and we don't start pre-production for another two weeks."

"Cal?" Ducky asked.

"My, uh, boss." From her faint blush, he was her 'uh, boss' and 'uh, something else,' I'm willing to bet.

"Ah." Ducky is not totally oblivious. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed a business card. "Please. Don't hesitate to call or email. I don't want to lose touch with you." He gave her one of his intense looks.

"I promise. I'll send you a message when I get back to the hotel. I just switched ISPs and I haven't memorized my new screen name."

"Maybe we can all get together for lunch? In a couple of days?" I guess I was feeling friendly because of how things turned out. Or guilty. Or something.

"I'd like that. I have some pictures. Of Mom. And pictures of her artwork…" Fran looked away. I caught the glint of sudden tears.

"That would be lovely," Ducky said quickly. Always the gentleman, he walked her out to her car while I headed back to the kitchen. (I really _did_ have dishes to do.)

"Sorry to be so long." Ducky wandered back in a bit later. "Mother decided she would rather watch _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_," he said absently. He stood next to me, hand between my shoulder blades, thumb lightly rubbing my back.

"Ah." I continued to rinse off dishes from breakfast and lunch. "Give the sauces a poke, would you? Please? But come back to that back patting," I added as he stepped away. "Thanks, sweetie."

"My pleasure." His voice was still distracted. He stirred the two pots (without mushrooms for Mother and Charlie; with mushrooms for the rest of us). "I was so hoping Lily would be able to join us."

"So was I." He came back to stand next to me, hand again on my back. I love his small attentions as much as the big ones. He's very affectionate, very caring—

"How long have you known?"

Very psychic. "Known? Known what?" I stalled.

He sighed. "About Francesca."

Oh. _That_ what. "Um…"

"I saw your face, darling. You were surprised. But not _that_ surprised."

"Um…" I was so eloquent.

The hand on my back increased pressure minutely and he turned me to face him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, Ducky…" I managed to not cry, but it took effort. "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how. Or even what to say."

"I wish you had."

I'd've rather he screamed. Yelled. Thrown things. It was worse seeing the disappointment on his face, hearing the pain in his voice. "I'm sorry," I managed to get out.

He gave me a light hug. "We'll muddle through."

I hugged him back harder. "I never meant to hurt you. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"I know…" He stroked my hair. A couple of tears sneaked out and dampened his shirtfront. "Francesca told you? When you met?"

"No—oh, no, no. No." This was gonna be hard. "Lily traced her family tree." I felt his intake of breath more than I heard it. "It was right before her dad died. She totally forgot about it. But Ev stumbled over it—literally—and told me. I've only known for a week—and I've been miserable the whole time."

"If you had just—"

"Told you?" I interrupted. "I know. It was just so—overwhelming. I mean, you have never been married. You never mentioned any children. That meant you were either lying to everyone—and just _couldn't_ believe that. Or you didn't know. Which could have happened. And _is_ what happened. I'm sorry," I said again.

"You were scared, weren't you." I chewed my lip and didn't answer. "Maybe… afraid it _was_ true, that maybe I'd want to be 'responsible' and go back to the mother of my child?"

Ouch. "Yeah. I guess." I sighed. "I guess I was… a little scared. A little… jealous," I admitted out loud.

"Worried you'd lose me."

I nodded silently.

He pulled back slightly and tipped my chin up. His look was serious but not unkind. "That will _never_ happen."

"Don't be mad at Lily? Or Ev? Please?" I managed a lopsided smile to offset my pleading voice.

"I'm not. I'm not angry with anyone, not even Marielle. I'm a trifle confused—but not angry."

"Confused?"

"Why Marielle didn't tell me what she had done. Why she did it in the first place."

"Well, I can answer the second question. I think. You didn't mention who Fran's father is—" And, from his look, he was going to continue not mentioning him. "She put your name because you had been her friend, her confidant, someone she could trust." I cocked my head. "You knew before you came back from England. You knew she was pregnant."

He nodded. "We exchanged a great many letters, a great many telephone calls on that subject… but why wouldn't she tell me her plan, the decision to name _me_ as the father?"

"No clue. When you came back, how long did you stay?"

"Well… Mother had decided to join me." He gave a small laugh. "All those pictures of the beach. So I bought a house down the way. I suppose I was at the apartment two, three months?"

"She probably didn't have time to screw up the courage."

"You just said I was someone she trusted. Why would she be afraid of me?"

"I never said she was _afraid_ of you. I'm guessing embarrassed and maybe guilty. She named you as the father of her child. Who knew how you would react? Maybe she was afraid _she'd_ lose you."

He shook his head slowly. "It just breaks my heart to think of her locked away in her own mind. She was so sweet, so talented, so creative…"

"What causes that?"

"Any number of reasons. It sounds like they've ruled out organic causes…"

"Which means what—emotional?" He didn't answer. "Ducky… is there a reason Marielle would be afraid of Fran's father?"

He thought for a moment. "Afraid? No, no… not _afraid_.' His voice was flat.

"Ducky—why wouldn't she tell Fran? Well, I mean—okay, she can't _tell_ her, not now. But why would she lie? You said there isn't a reason to be afraid of him…"

He sighed heavily. "Perhaps… he was a disappointment."

Ducky-speak for 'he lied, he broke her heart, he abandoned her when she became pregnant.' Or something close. "Would you consider—just _consider_—telling Fran the truth?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't—" He sighed. "If I could just talk to Marielle…"

Yeah. Good luck with that one.

He rubbed his cheek on the top of my head. "I'm sorry Marielle's decision came out to hurt you. To hurt Francesca."

I sighed. I'm sorry. Fran's sorry. Ducky's sorry. And the only person who can answer the questions and ease the pain is as silent as the Sphinx.

Sorry…

/ / /

When Ev and Charlie arrived that afternoon it was just in time for tea. (Mother had forgotten about the Reuben—thank god—and was happy with tiny chicken salad sandwiches, devilled eggs and an assortment of sweets (including almond macaroons still warm from the oven).) I managed to pull Evelyn aside and give her the 15-second version of Fran's visit; she promptly went to Ducky and apologized profusely for not telling him directly. "You've known Cassandra for over a decade. Of course your first thought would be of her." He gave her a long hug for good measure.

We celebrated the news that Lily's slight fever had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. If she was still normal ("Yeah, right," Ev cracked.) by noon Sunday, she would be released and on her way home that afternoon. When Ev heard that Ducky was planning a proper Sunday dinner, British-style, but was worried it would be too much for Lily, she assured him that Lily would be fine. "She's got one of _those_ constitutions. Doesn't get sick. When she does, she's down two days where other people are down ten. Shattered her leg skiing—out of cast and brace in four weeks and no limp at all. She never even got zits in high school, the fink."

"Mommy Ev calls her Wolverine," Charlie said around a crammed full mouthful of sandwich. Her lack of manners earned her a mild glare from Evvie, but I took it as a compliment to my cooking.

Charlie had proved and able dog wrangler and often went with Mother on her afternoon walks whether Suzy was there or not. With two sets of big ears out of hearing range, Ducky, Ev and I were able to discuss Fran's visit at length.

Ev was a big champion for Fran. "You never promised Marielle anything," she pointed out. "Did you _ever_ say, 'I swear to never tell your child that her true parent is Arnold Schwarzenneger?'" she intoned. Ducky gaped at her. "Holy shit. It's not really the governator, is it?"

"No!" Ducky protested quickly.

"Nah, she doesn't look a thing like him," I said. Ducky had bowed to our requests and pulled out a photo album from that time period. There were pages and pages of photos—Ducky at work, Ducky at the beach, Ducky and the residents of the complex and so forth. (Ducky was smokin' hot back then. Woof.) "She doesn't much look like Marielle, either," I added thoughtfully. Mary Peterson (neé Carpenter) was a doll. Almost literally. I'd tower over her and I'm a shrimp. If she was five feet I'll stand center ice and sing the national anthem. We could be sisters except she's flat-out beautiful and I'm, well, 'cute' on a good day. She had red-gold hair (what some might call Titan) that fell past her shoulders in a mass of waves and curls. In every picture she had a sort of faraway look, almost a Mona Lisa smile. Otherworldly. I could see why the men gravitated toward her (she was getting a lot of attention from the male of the species in many of the photos). I searched the crowds for anyone who looked like Fran even slightly; there were plenty of guys with darker hair and eyes but nobody who stood out from the crowd. But I could see why Mary brought out Ducky's protective, big brother nature.

"No. She doesn't," Ev agreed. "Not from what you described, anyway." She suddenly gasped. "Holy crap! That's—that's Harrison Ford!"

Ducky peered at the photo. "Ah, yes. It is."

Hmm. There was a _faint_ resemblance… "Is he—"

"No," Ducky said with a patient sigh. "This was right before his career took off. He was doing odd carpentry jobs to help make the rent between pictures. Maxine decided to convert two units into a sort of clubhouse and he did the cabinets. They were quite lovely," he said.

"I remember reading that he was a carpenter before _Star Wars_ made him famous," Evelyn said. "And he did his own carpentry on whatchamacallit, the Amish movie."

"A lot of people got a boost to their career back then. Like the governator," I said with a laugh. Ducky turned the page. "Oh! _That_ Maxine!"

Ducky looked at the picture I was tapping. "Yes. She was seventy or so in that picture."

"Wow." She was stunning. Her hair—dyed age-defying platinum—was swept up in a small beehive and plastered in place. She was wearing a feather and spangle-trimmed turquoise jumpsuit and silver platform shoes. A rhinestone choker with great, swooping ropes of stones adorned her throat and glittering doodads sparkled form her earlobes and fingers. She had the figure to pull off the jumpsuit and the guts to wear the shoes. Her nails, about 2" long, minimum, matched her shoes. I immediately recognized her from _Murder She Wrote, Simon and Simon, Remington Steele, Streets of San Francisco_—guest shots on almost every show from 1960 to 1985. "Just looking at that outfit, I can picture Fran having a ball with her old clothes."

"A number of the residents had grandchildren who would visit. They all adored Maxine."

"It's starting to click, now. I remember her name from the movies, too. She did a lot of second feature 'B' flicks, film noir, mysteries, spy stories. They were pretty good." I grinned. "Tony DiNozzo will flip when you tell him your landlady was Maxine Arthur!"

"I wanna grow up to be Maxine," Ev said enviously. "This one or the comic strip. Or both."

"I wonder if she's still around…" I mused.

Ducky snorted. "Probably. She was roaring strong the last time I saw her and she's about Mother's age."

"Oh, god." I was overcome with rising giggles. "Can you just see mother and Maxine trolling Hollywood together?"

Evelyn exploded in matching giggles and Ducky groaned aloud and began to laugh uproariously. "Dear heavens, what did Abby say the other day? 'Must. Gouge. Out. Mind's. Eye!'"

The front door slammed lightly and the furry guards came scampering through the room.

"Donald! Com_pose_ yourself!" Victoria sounded absolutely scandalized.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he called. But he was still chuckling. He dropped his voice. "I just had this alarming vision of Mother in one of her dreadful gowns she used to wear when she'd go out dancing—and Maxine—" He glanced at the picture and his laughter started up again. "—in one of her more, ah, _interesting_ ensembles, wandering the stores along H-H-Hollywood Boulevard," he got out around gasping chuckles. He grabbed a kerchief from his pocket and blotted his streaming eyes. "And the vice squad coming upon them and Mother and Maxine giving them merry hell—"

The mental image of Maxine (who, with the application of heavier makeup and tawdrier sparkles, would fit in as an aging madam) and Victoria (who always looks like "a lay-dee" but whose slipping faculties leave her saying the most improper things at the most inopportune times) strolling the sidewalks of Sunset and Vine had us all holding each other up in hysteria all over again.

I was wiping my eyes with the inside of my wrist. "Oh, ow, oh, don't make me laugh!" I doubled over. "Ohmigod, I've got a bitch of a stitch in my side now—ow!"

"We _really_ must sober up," Evelyn said severely. She held her poker face for three seconds, burst into out-and-out guffaws and actually slid off the couch and landed on her butt.

"Evelyn!" Still chuckling, Ducky leaped up and held out a hand to help her up. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," she laughed, accepting his hand.

"Did you bruise your pride?"

"Nah, I'm good. When do you want me to start the garlic bread?" The last snickering comment was directed toward me.

"Seven, quarter-past is fine."

"Cool. I'm going to go get my butt whipped at gin rummy." She rolled her eyes. "Grandma is a card sharp, I think."

"I often thought that growing up. I frequently lost my allowance to her."

"Oooh. Let's take her to Vegas for her birthday." Ducky glared at me good-naturedly. "Atlantic City?"

"No," he said firmly. "It would be too traumatic."

"For her?" I called as he headed toward the kitchen. (The dogs would be lined up like a cadet review, waiting for dinner.)

"For the croupiers," he shot back over his shoulder.

I grinned and turned back to the photo album. I've seen plenty of other collections—Victoria loves sharing pictures, and she and Charlie have gone through boxes of old photographs and sorted them out. But this was one of Ducky's albums, pictures _he_ had collected over the years. He had some gorgeous pictures of landscapes, everything from pages of snow camp (_Christmas Day, Big Bear_ read his precise notes; snowy trees, gorgeous log cabin—in one shot he had his arm slung around a snowman—rather, snow_woman_ decked out in some of Maxine's finest) to sunset on the beach (_From snow to the Santa Monica beach, 15F to 83F in 24 hours!_); pictures of a visit to a movie studio (including shots of Ducky posed with a hot babe in a cheesy sci-fi outfit; she was showing way too much interest in him, in my opinion—not that I could blame her), all sorts of photos from a couple of years in Southern California. (I actually clapped my hands when I saw a shot of my absolute favorite bookstore; Ducky had been allowed up to the loft area and taken an aerial shot of the haphazard and jerry-rigged bookcases that made up Acres of Books. (From the look of it, it was before they expanded to the next couple of empty spots to the south.) I'd drop Jackie a note and ask her if she remembered him; I was willing to bet she did.)

The pictures that caught my deepest scrutiny, however, were the ones from the apartment complex. And Ducky had plenty of them scattered through the book. Lots of Maxine—the woman was photogenic and clearly charming, of course he'd have her in lots of shots. She kind of reminded me of Coral Browne in _American Dreamer_ (we should all look so good at that age). There were a lot of good-looking guys—and girls—around the patio and pool. About a third were Maxine's age or so; the other two-thirds were 18 to 35 or so. Ducky had scrawled names and apartment numbers; it looked like we had youngsters sharing apartments to split the rent. Marielle was one of the few living alone. (Explains how she ended up pregnant; hard to do if you have six roomies.) Ducky's memory wasn't perfect; there were 24 apartment numbers listed. Add two that they turned into a clubhouse and the manager's double apartment and it was a 28-unit place, not 12.

Lots of pictures from lots of parties. Ducky was right; birthdays, holidays, you name it. Probably some of them were "it's Wednesday, let's party!" parties. Marielle wasn't the only pretty girl in residence; there were a couple of apartments full of stewardesses, one or two of coeds, another couple with wannabe starlets. Then there were the guys. (Mrow.) Lots of surfer dudes, musicians… and wannabe stars. The elder members of the complex were frequently caught looking at the younger crew with amused expressions, probably remembering their wild oats days.

But despite the collection of attractive people, you couldn't help but be drawn to Marielle. There was something haunting in her eyes, like she was not on this earthly plain. Now knowing what I do, I could see the early leaning toward her mental illness. But if you didn't have the inside dope, she just has a mystical, otherworldly look to her.

I scoped out the crowd for tall, dark haired buys, because it was plain Fran didn't favor her mom. There were several to choose from. Frankly, all of them were good suspects; they were quite a bit alike. _So. Which one of you is the cad?_ God. This was like a bad episode of _Maury Povitch_. "Who's Your Baby Daddy?" Ugh.

I shut the book and pushed it aside and stood up—and damned near fell over. Boy. I had a nasty stitch in my side from my gigglefest.

No.

Right state, wrong city.

My almost literal ROFL had brought my not-gone-just-low-key-for-now muscle ache from a couple of weeks ago into wakefulness. And it hurt like hell. I actually gave in the day before and called my doctor for an appointment—and Ducky had been right: the first available appointment was almost two weeks out. ("But we'll put you on the cancel list," the receptionist had said perkily. I resisted the temptation to say, "Good thing I'm not dying." Don't piss off the people who have the appointment book on their side.) I made my way upstairs, biting my lip to keep from vocalizing every time my step tugged the muscles (for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction—damn it) and a _zing_ of pain shot through my abdomen. I downed a handful of ibuprofin and slathered some Deep*Ache*Relief! on my stomach. Even though the peppermint scent would blend with the oil I used in lieu of perfume, I was sure Ducky would notice. Notice—and nag.

/ / /

Everyone agreed dinner was fabulous. ('Thank you, thank you,' she said with a curtsey. Please note the jar on the counter, tipping is not just something you do to a canoe.) After dessert (an ice cream bombe Evelyn had put together when she found herself sleepless at two that morning; she can't cook, but she can sure create with already-made ingredients) we adjourned to the backyard; Ducky and I were under the thriving magnolia, closely snuggled together on one lounge while watching 'the girls' play their own version of croquet. (It reminded me of a cross between _I Love Lucy_ where Lucy learns to play golf and the _Star Trek_ episode where Captain Kirk creates the off-the-cuff card game Fizzbin. They were _not_ playing according to Hoyle. But there were having a blast.)

"What. A. Day."

"Mmh." Ducky reached up and lightly combed his fingers through the hair on my temple. I was in a 'favorite place' of mine, my head lying on his chest. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub._ "What a week," he amended.

My turn to say, "Mmh." I looked at the gorgeous ring sitting on my finger, my hand splayed on his chest. "Happy one-week anniversary."

He chuckled, making my head bounce. "Happy anniversary, dearest."

We lay silently, watching Victoria bowl with her croquet ball (not a bad underhand pitch). Then Evelyn blindfolded Charlie, spun her around and set her in front of her ball—she smacked it good and hard, sending it into the goldfish pond (fortunately empty, but for water and plants, the last occupant heading to the great pond in the sky only a couple of months ago). Evelyn then had to stand on one leg, the other extended at a perfect 90-degree angle, and blast her croquet ball into oblivion. "Home run!" she yelled.

Ducky laughed. "We were given that set as a housewarming gift. I can guarantee it's the most fun we've had with it in almost thirty years."

"And the fact that the rules change every play works to Mother's advantage. It doesn't matter that she doesn't remember the rules from five minutes ago, they're gonna be different anyway."

"True."

Another long, comfortable silence broken only by laughs and enthusiastic shrieks. "I love you."

"I love _you_." The hand that had ended up back on my hip moved around, gently rubbing and caressing (but nothing even close to PG; we had a potential audience mere yards away). I tried not to flinch when it wandered dead center—and almost succeeded. "Have you called the doctor?" he asked with a barely patient sigh.

"Yes. My appointment is a week from Thursday." He made an exasperated noise. "I'm on the cancellation list," I added hopefully.

"You should have called earlier."

"I still say it's nothing," I sighed. Before he could continue, I changed the subject. "You _do_ know who Fran's father is, don't you?"

After a long moment: "Yes."

"Did you _know_ him? Or just know his name?"

"We met."

Hmm. Only 'met.' Maybe the boys at the complex were off the hook. "Was it someone Marielle worked with?"

Longer silence. "Cassandra, I do not want to turn this into 'Twenty Questions.'"

Well, I do. "Ducky, she has a right to know."

"And Marielle has a right to her privacy."

"If Marielle were dead, would you tell her?"

He thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. Possibly."

"She's been 'gone' for twenty years. Isn't that close enough?" He shook his head slightly. "Marielle won't even _know_. Are you worried about hurting Fran?"

"Among others, yes," he sighed. "People hurt by a lie… people hurt by the truth… No good choice in the matter."

"Is it worse to tell Fran the truth? She knows what she was told is a lie and what she discovered is a lie; is the truth worse?"

I tipped my head back; I could just barely see him staring off, looking as lost in time as Mary had. "It could well be."

Oh, joy.

/ / /

Personally, if I had spent three days recuperating from being shot twice (plus surgery and crappy hospital food), I'd want to do nothing more than sleep for about a month. Preferably with nobody nearby. But Lily was chomping at the bit to go home. And go home she did. Well, in stages, anyway.

Ducky drove Lily's car to the hospital (of the available vehicles, hers was the most comfortable—by far) and very carefully ferried her home. Charlie balked, but Evvie convinced her that having a doctor as chauffeur was the best choice—as was staying overnight in Reston before heading back home to Kalorama. It would take some vehicular juggling, but we'd manage. Hey, it's what families do, right?

Lily looked amazingly good. They'd pumped gallons of blood into her and had her hooked to IV goop as well as shoveling probably nutritious but probably tasteless food down her throat so that by Friday night she was walking up and down the corridor by her room unaided. She was moving slowly, but unless you knew why you'd guess she pulled a muscle or slept crooked. Being shot wouldn't have popped to mind.

Convincing Victoria that Lily would be better off upstairs was harder than convincing Charlie to not stow away in the trunk. Victoria had been at the hospital every day and desperately wanted Lily under her watchful gaze. (It was gonna be ugly when we left Monday morning, that was certain.)

The drive from the hospital had given Ducky and Lily a private time to discuss Fran. What had happened. What she wanted to happen. What couldn't happen. It took an extra fifteen minutes to drive home—just enough time to pull off the road, have a long talk, a little cry and a couple of forgiving hugs from both sides.

The first dinner Ducky ever fixed for me was roast beef with all of the trimmings, including a Yorkshire pudding that was like eating air. Tasty air. He duplicated it that night and ended up with three more fans. (Charlie took a tiny serving of raspberry jumble and went back for more Yorkshire pudding as dessert. The girl is a true-blue carb freak.)

None of the girls wanted to let Lily out of their sight—and by girls, I include Victoria at the head of the list. She guarded Lily as jealously as the dogs guarded her. She was confused over the family dynamic—somehow Lily, Ev and Charlie became her younger sisters (in reality, she was the youngest of the three girls, only her lone brother followed her)—but it didn't matter who they were in her universe, her beloved Lily had been hurt and needed her undivided attention.

Lily quickly decided the couch looked comfy enough (especially since the other option was schlepping upstairs to the guest bedroom). Minor squabbles ensued. Victoria wanted to give up her bed to Lily (multiple vetoes on that), then she suggested moving the bed into the living room (Ducky raised an eyebrow and quietly said, "No," in the tone of voice that meant there would be no further discussions, period). Ducky was all for sleeping in his office chair, thinking it would be a good idea to have a doctor steps away instead of a staircase away; I wasn't keen on that plan and Charlie looked appropriately panicked (if Uncle Ducky wants to stay downstairs to watch over Mommy, is Mommy _really_ okay?). Finally, Lily just sighed in exasperation, "Why don't we just rent a party suite at the Marriott?" Sanity—or something close to it—finally prevailed. Victoria claimed the loveseat (she's tiny enough to sleep almost stretched out full on it), Charlie and Ev moved their sleeping bags from across the hall and we relocated the intercom from Victoria's bedside to the table next to Lily and we all retired for the night.

Sleep was a different story.

Usually Ducky leaves the intercom on "press to talk" in case Victoria needs something during the night. Concerned that something might happen and he'd need to hustle downstairs _tout de suite_, he left it on "open channel." And the cacophony coming through the speaker was truly amazing. I tried holding my head under my pillow, stuffing cotton in my ears—everything. _Nothing_ worked. There are plenty of nights Ducky leaves it open but on a low volume, so I've learned to sleep through the _snorrrk_ from the speaker. Or even noises from when Victoria _and_ Charlie are sleeping downstairs. But, holy cow, with the volume up high and all four of them near the speakers _and_ the dogs—jeez!

After waking up and finding me awake over and over (and _over_), Ducky mumbled, "Oh, for heaven's sake, sleep in the guest room." I pouted (whined, actually) about not being able to cuddle with him; he shoved his Valentine's Day teddy bear (the doctor bear, of course) into my arms and said, "Proxy." Still sulking slightly, I headed across the hall—and was asleep in minutes. Hey, three hours is better than none.

Bless Suzy Bailey. She arrived early in the morning, took stock of the situation and whipped up breakfast before we crawled out of bed. A pot of Wheatena earned a disgusted look from Victoria. Charlie tugged her sleeve; when Victoria leaned over, Charlie 'whispered,' "Try it with brown sugar and cream, it's _smashing_."

I hid my snicker in my coffee. The kid watches some weird PBS shows. But she got Victoria to eat a bowl of what she had always called 'nasty, vile thing' and enjoy it. I truly love that kid.

Evelyn and Charlie went off in one direction (with many protests, of course, and only after a stern lecture from Lily about ditching summer school); Ducky drove Lily's car (with Lily, of course) in a slightly different direction. I followed Ducky in my van and would drop him off at the Yard and take him home that evening. (It was either that or he drove the Morgan and Lily's Volvo double chariot style. Could have been interesting, at that.) It took some linguistic legerdemain to get everyone out without Victoria bringing down the house, but we did it.

This was my first time to Lily's house. Frankly, I was intimidated. The place was enormous. And old. And majorly expensive. (Please. This is the area of town where some of the Old Names and ambassadors live. We're not talking public housing, here.) I started to wonder if Lily's middle name was Rockefeller.

"Not quite," she laughed. "This is the ol' family homestead. It was a wedding gift to my great-grandparents on my father's side, from my great-grandmother's parents. It was _much_ smaller back then. It kind of grew over the years. And for a short time it was a 'select academy for young ladies,'" she quoted. "Back about 1905."

"It's gorgeous." I couldn't keep a tinge of envy from my voice.

"It's a bitch to heat. But it's paid for," she said tiredly.

Ducky frowned. "Will you be all right alone?"

"I'll be aces. I'm just tired. I just want to sleep."

"Good plan. Do you want me to fix you anything?" I asked hopefully. Food equals love, right?

"God, no," she said with a small laugh. "I'm still stuffed from last night and this morning. But if it wears off, I have plenty of easy to fix in the freezer. I always cook ahead." She patiently put up with being fussed over by both of us. Quilt? (Too warm.) Afghan? (Too scratchy.) Air conditioning? (Too cold.) Fans? (Too dusty.) This wasn't Lily complaining, mind you. She was almost amused by the two mother hens hovering over one chick. Finally she just curled up on her bed and fell asleep while we whisper-argued back and forth. Only when a soft snore disturbed us did we take a hint, stop arguing and creep out the back door.

While I was unlocking the passenger door, Ducky's cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and raised his eyebrows. "Jethro?" he said in a surprised tone.

I just can't call Gibbs 'Jethro.' Which is a good thing, because he's never asked me to do so.

"You did get my message that I'll be a little late this morning—"

"Yeah, I did." I could hear his voice clearly from the phone. "That's why I'm calling. Got a hit on the car, Duck."

"Car?" Ducky repeated.

"The shooter?" I could picture a bemused smile on his face.

Ducky looked startled. "Oh!" I leaned in a little, the better to eavesdrop. Ducky held the phone out from his ear so we could both hear.

"Yeah, it's a rental. Customer—" He shuffled papers. "Allison Stan-a-chov-ni-a of New York—reported it stolen when she went to go out the next morning. Nothing on the security camera—hotel was using dummy cameras in the self-park area as a cost-saving measure."

Ducky and I exchanged 'oh, how helpful' looks. "Have they recovered the vehicle yet?"

"Nope. Got the BOLO on it. Place is a cut-rate joint, no GPS in the car." Damn.

"She wasn't the driver?" I whispered.

Gibbs has sharp hearing. "Doesn't appear to be. There's a general resemblance you have with any woman—" I shot Ducky a look; he gave me an apologetic smile. "But even _I _can tell the difference between blonde and brunette."

Ducky looked disappointed. "Yes, that is quite a disparity."

"But now we've got the full plate. The BOLO just got updated. Course, could be anywhere by now."

And we _still_ had no clue why anyone would be going after Ducky—or Lily.

/ / /

I was right. As soon as Tony heard that Ducky's landlady had been Maxine Arthur he went nuts. It took a little patience from Ducky to get the message through that when Ducky had been her tenant, she had been an attractive, classy older woman, not the "smokin' hot babe" he remembered form late night movies on TV. ("Good Lord," Ducky grumbled on the way home. "How old does he think I am?" "It's just that she always looked so young," I soothed.)

And she did. Over the next day or two I studied the old pictures, hoping for some clue. I found several pictures of Fran being adored by Ducky, Marielle, 'Auntie Max' and pretty much anyone at the complex. Maxine clearly worshipped Fran; she looked almost as besotted as Victoria does looking at Charlie. (The fact that Fran looked like one of the happiest babies on the planet probably helped.) I'm sure it broke everyone's heart when Marielle and Fran moved out.

I looked through those photos like they were pieces of a treasure map. And, in a way, they were. I was _sure_ the answer was there, somewhere. Ducky wouldn't tell Fran but, hey, I didn't take an oath of silence.

After two days of watching me pore over old photos, Suzy got curious. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No, no," I lied. "It's just interesting seeing Ducky's past. A lot of Hollywood 'names' passed through that apartment house."

She looked over my shoulder. "Ohhhhh…" She gave a long, slow indrawn breath. "George Clooney," she said almost reverently. "A very young George Clooney," she amended. "Oh, he can park his toothbrush in my bathroom anytime."

I laughed. "Yeah, not too shabby."

The phone on the end table jangled. "Mallard residence," I chirped.

There was a short silence. "Is—is this Cassandra?"

"Yes…?"

"It's—it's Fran."

"Oh, hi." I pushed my smile a little larger. "What's up?"

"I, uh, I was wondering if—if we could get together? For lunch? The three of us? Maybe tomorrow?" There was a question in almost every word.

I felt safe saying, "Sure." I knew Ducky would want to meet up with her before she went back to California, knew he was feeling a little depressed over the situation. Guilty, even. I wasn't nagging him that he should tell Fran the truth, but I sure felt that he should. "Where and when? You want to try the Hippy Gypsy we were talking about?"

"I—I have a couple of appointments. Would the Millennia be too far to drive?"

"Nah. Everything in DC is just a traffic jam away."

She laughed, the ice broken a little. "I learned to drive in L.A. I know traffic jams. What time is good?"

"Would one-ish be too late?" We tend to eat dinner a little late; earlier than one and I'll be foraging in the fridge mid-afternoon and ruining my appetite. Again.

"Sounds good to me. I'll meet you at the restaurant around one, then."

When Ducky got back home from a dash to the library to pick up a book they were holding he was delighted to hear of our plans for the next day. "Mother crashed the reception last spring; I did not. But I was certainly tempted by the menu," he confided.

"That good?"

"That good."

I skipped dinner, suddenly realizing I hadn't been home since Saturday. Even self-cleaning litter pans need assistance, and Mr. Underfoot was going to be pissed as hell over four days of only dry kibble and water. (I had a sudden vision of him standing in a cell, dragging a tin cup back and forth over the bars and yelling, "Lousy screws!" Fortunately I was in the van, halfway home, when it hit (along with whoops of laughter)—explaining my mental picture to Ducky or Suzy would have been difficult.)

I nuked a frozen dinner (thinking longingly of the grilled salmon Ducky was fixing at about the same time) and appeased Foot with a can of salmon (not nearly as good as Ducky's, I'm sure). After we were both fed, I sat on the couch with him and had a mother and son chat while the TV nattered in the background.

"Listen. You like Ducky, don't you? He slips you Pounce while my back is turned, plays attack ribbon with you, you always sleep on him instead of me when he stays over… and, well, we're going to be together a lot more pretty soon." He looked at me evenly; _yeah, I like him, so what?_ "And… there are going to be some dee oh gee esses in the picture, too." His eyes narrowed; he can spell 'dogs.' "Yeah, I know. But they're _nice_ dogs, really." His tail lashed back and forth; 'nice dogs' is an oxymoron as far as he's concerned. "Or, maybe you'd like to come live at the store?" I suggested desperately.

He gave me a clearly 'up yours' look, leaped from the couch and stalked through his cat door to the back yard. I ducked into the bedroom, stuck my shoes in the closet and made sure to shut the door. Foot has a way of making his displeasure known in the most unpleasant manner possible. I plopped myself back on the couch thinking, _the Brady Bunch had it easy._

_/ / /_

"Glad I dressed up," I whispered.

"It's definitely more formal than the Gypsy," Ducky murmured.

The lobby of Millennia was gorgeous. Lots of crystal and glass and brushed aluminum. Fresh flowers all over the place, exotic buds I can't begin to identify. Uniform of the day was black, white and silver with a hint of burgundy: black jackets with matching slacks or pencil skirts, blindingly white shirt or lace-trimmed blouse, silver tie with uber-thin maroon stripe for the gentlemen and silver with burgundy embroidery chiffon scarf on the throat or hair for the ladies. They managed to look classy but not like upscale flight attendants. Millennia was trying to attract new, hip, moneyed travelers—and they were succeeding. (I have a sneaking suspicion many of the people I passed on our way in earned in two months what I make in a year.) Fran was waiting for us near the entrance to the room marked _Felice's_ in discreet silver and maroon neon. (I never through neon could be discreet. They managed it.) Her face lit up when she was us and we were each the recipient of an enthusiastic hug. Normally Ducky isn't big on public displays of affection, but he was clearly absolving Fran of any guilt on that score. And he either missed the look of mild irritation from the blonde nearby or didn't give a rodent's posterior about her opinion.

After we had ordered, Fran pulled a postal box from her enormous shoulder bag. She set out picture after picture, photos of her mother from years before Ducky had even met her, from the 70s and beyond… the heartbreaking ones were of Marielle since her life turned upside down: Fran sitting with her father (who looked like what I would expect a stunt coordinator to look like—big, tough, easygoing-looking dude with a slightly scruffy beard and a nose that had been broken a couple of times in his life) and her mother, a birthday cake in front of them, Fran and her father smiling for the camera and Marielle… not there. Fran helping Marielle open Christmas gifts, a little tree by her bed; Fran looking excited over the box of art supplies and Marielle… not there. Marielle dressed up for Halloween, an elf fairy complete with delicately pointed ears (undoubtedly courtesy Fran) and she was just… not… there.

"Would it be possible to get copies of these?" Ducky's voice was a little distant. Couldn't blame him; knowing Ducky as I do, he was probably feeling guilty twinges over what had happened to Marielle, even though it was totally not his fault.

Fran smiled almost as distractedly as Ducky's voice sounded. "Actually… these are copies. I thought—" She sighed deeply. "I thought my father… might—might want them."

"I'm sure he would have," I said to fill the sudden awkward silence. Apparently Ducky disagreed; he said nothing, but he did manage to muster a smile. "Your mom is an incredible artist!" The photos of her pictures looked like photos of real life—barring the fact that I haven't seen a dragon or wizard in real life lately.

Fran smiled broadly. "She sure is." She scrabbled through the pictures. "This is the room I was telling you about, my old room."

I couldn't stop the gasp. "Wow!"

"Incredible," Ducky breathed.

You expected people and creatures to just walk off the walls and join the little girl sitting on the floor playing with a set of plastic fantasy toys. The Pegasus in her hands looked even more plastic than normal when compared to the animal hovering over the rose briar garden. (I had a sudden flash to Ray Bradbury's _The Veldt_. Whoa.) "If I'd had this as a kid, I'd've never left my room!"

"'Go to your room' wouldn't have been much of a punishment," Ducky agreed.

The other pictures of Marielle's art were just as stunning. She leaned toward science fiction—star-scapes, space battles and heroes and villains armed with futuristic weapons. But there were a fair number of more mainstream pictures as well—costume epics, horse races and so forth. A lot of pictures from movies I recognized, everything from Mary Pickford and Lilian Gish to the treasure room scene from _National Treasure_. She might not be watching, but her mind was absorbing what was around her.

The heartbreaking ones were of Fran. Always on tiny pieces of paper, not much larger than a 3x5 card, years and years of pictures—each one titled in tiny print MY BABY. Fran—or someone—had taken a picture of Marielle drawing one of these portraits; she was hunched over almost protectively huddled over the notepad. It was like she was hiding these pictures from everyone else. I casually turned away for a moment and blinked hard then came back with an easy smile on my face.

Marielle was still a knockout. Her hair was now a soft gold with hints of red, sprinkled liberally with white, and her gaze was even more faraway than before. She was frequently sitting with her husband, her daughter, other residents or the staff… but she was never engaged with them or anything around them. No reaction. No life. I swallowed hard; it was scary to see how tenuous a person's hold on reality could be. Ducky slipped to the next picture and I couldn't stop the "Holy shit!" that flew out.

Fran laughed. "Yeah, that's one of Mom's favorite movies."

It was the charity ball scene from _Gone With the Wind_. All of the pictures had been so realistic they were scary. But this? Jeez. It looked so real I could hear the music, hear Scarlett's, 'Oh, yes, I will!' ringing in the air. God, I could smell the candles and oil lamps, feel the rustle of silk and satin ball gowns. It was like a single frame out of the film, only even more realistic, each and every person captured perfectly down to the last eyelash.

"She did it from memory."

Ducky looked as startled as I felt. "No references? At all?"

"Not for any of them. Everything—" She tapped her forehead.

I guess when you haven't interacted with people for a quarter of a century, your hard drive has a lot of free space. (_Jeez, Cassandra, that was cold. And tacky._) I was saved from further possible hoof-in-mouth disease by the arrival of lunch. I carefully collected the photos, put them back in the box and slipped it into my bag (Ducky sure as hell couldn't tuck it in his pocket!).

Ducky and I both appreciate good food—and Millennia didn't disappoint. Ducky had the most amazing gingered beef with wild rice almandine and sesame broccoli; I went with _lamb Felice_, a sort of lamb Wellington with fettuccini in a very light tarragon cream sauce and tiny daisy carrots (carrots cut out like daisies with a piece of white corn in the center; adorable and delicious). Fran chose a plain ol' chef's salad… that could feed a small family. "I've been here for a while," she said ruefully. "I've eaten my way through the menu. It's all good, but I'm kind of a salad freak."

"That's a great salad to be a freak over," I said. All sorts of spring greens and baby spinach, four kinds of meat (that I could see), at least four kinds of cheese, artistically slaughtered veggies, slivers of hard-boiled egg, tiny dried currants and blueberries—the list was endless. That sucker was three meals, easy.

We chatted amiably over lunch for a good hour. Fran didn't give Ducky the chance to be his usual gentlemanly self—her meals automatically charged to her room, ours included. When she saw his furrowed brow, she hooked her arm through his and side hugged him. "I promise, before I leave for L.A., you can take me out for—for an ice cream sundae or something… Uncle Ducky."

"That seems amusingly appropriate," he laughed. "Are you going out? Can we drop you somewhere?"

"Yes, I am, and no, thank you. Cal sent me an email yesterday, wanting me to check out something at the Natural History Museum." At our curious looks, she hemmed and hawed a bit. "I can't say more. I know we're a jillion miles away, but the film industry can be kind of cagey. Nobody wants their idea swiped."

"And yet they manage to get _Dante's Peak_ and _Volcano_ out in the same year," I said drily.

"GMTA, I guess." She shook her hand, rustling the white paper shopping bag that held her lunch leftovers. "I just want to tuck this in the fridge before I go." (Even their takeout boxes and bags are chic. I don't want to know what the room rates are.)

"We'll walk you out." I didn't mind Ducky including me in the equation; I was coming to really like Fran. If he was Uncle Ducky, I was Aunt Buttinsky, because I really wanted to find an answer for Fran and sneak it to her. Hmm. Maybe I could send her a note at work…

"Jeez, even the elevator is swank," I muttered as we entered. It was almost as big as my first apartment.

"Sing gets a great rate from Millennia," she confided. I hope so; she hit the PH button. "I have to say, of all the hotels I've stayed at—this is the top of the heap. I'm going to hate going back to the real world. Oh, good—the maid's been by." There was a metal card frame in the center of the door; the large business card-sized plastic placard read _**Serviced**_ in delicate silver script on a black background. Fran pulled the thin sign out and flipped it over so the _**No Service Needed**_ showed at the top of the frame, the red _**Please Service Room**_ being hidden by the decorative bracket. (Much classier than the usual plastic door hangers with cutesy-poo cartoons of maids armed with every possible cleaning implement.)

I managed not to gasp when Fran opened the door. The place was, to be kind, a wreck. (Apparently maid service means 'change towels, clean the potty, make the bed and vacuum around your piles of crap and don't touch anything else—you're on your own for the rest of the mess.')

"Oh… my god." Good thing Fran's leftovers were securely packed. When she dropped the bag, it landed straight down and smack on the floor. "What the hell…?"

Ducky grasped her arm and stopped her from going in. "I take it this is not how you left the room?"

She looked aghast. "No! I mean, I'm never going to win a Good Housekeeping award, but—this—" She made in inarticulate noise. She looked on the verge of tears (who could blame her?).

"We need to alert the manager. And the police." Ducky pulled us back from the door. Fran reached in and snatched her bag back. Like well-trained puppies (or ducklings, ha, ha) we followed Ducky to the settee near the elevator. Ducky used the house phone to call the front desk and explained, calmly and patiently, what had happened and would the manager and security please come upstairs? Thank you. And would you be so kind as to call DC Metro? Thank you.

It took me a couple of minutes to realize that Fran was clutching my hand; I twisted it around, but instead of pulling free I laced our fingers together more securely. "It'll be okay," I whispered. Of course it would. Ducky was in charge.

It finally started to sink in and Fran started to cry. "Why…?"

"You're in the Penthouse. They probably figured you had stuff worth stealing."

"My laptop," she sniffled. "That's about it. I'm wearing all my jewelry—" She waved her right hand; there were a couple of turquoise rings on her fingers and I could feel a couple more on the hand that still held mine tightly. "Why me? I have nothing to steal."

"They wouldn't know that until they got in there." Though you'd think they'd be a little subtler.

"Yeah…" She dug in her skirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue and swiped at her eyes. "Poor Cassandra. You keep running into me being a watering pot." She laughed shakily.

"Hey." I pulled my hand from hers and draped it across her shoulders, giving her a clumsy hug. "You've had good reasons."

She managed a smile. "Thanks."

The manager, Mrs. Dover, and the head of security (we were never introduced, but I glimpsed his nametag: James Rubio) were there lickity-split. Mrs. Dover was calm, cool and collected. (Think C.C.H. Pounder in _The Shield_. They could be twins.) You could announce the finding of a nuclear bomb on the property and she wouldn't turn a hair. They carefully surveyed the room from the doorway, not touching a thing. "Most distressing," she murmured. You said it, ma'am. She leaned over and murmured something to Mr. Rubio, who walked to the end of the short corridor and spoke into the air in an undertone. (I could barely see the earwig. At least he wasn't talking to himself.) "The police already had a unit in the area and will be here momentarily," she said to the three of us hovering in a semi-circle behind her. (That's a switch. Usually with D.C. police it's wait… and wait… and wait. Ducky says they never have that problem; I pointed out that they usually have a dead body as opposed to a shoplifter and that probably makes a slight difference. He agreed.)

The police arrived about the same time as the maid. She had been summoned by Mr. Rubio and stood as far away as she could manage, literally shaking. (Poor woman was probably scared she was going to be fired.) Like every hotel I've stayed in, she was of Hispanic origin. (That's not being racist, that's being realistic. I don't care if it's a Motel 6 in Yuma, Arizona or, well, the Millennium in D.C., 95% of the housekeeping staff is going to be Spanish speaking. Just stating a statistical fact.) While one of the officers made a cursory examination of the room, the other questioned us in turn, starting with Araceli, the day maid for this section of the hotel.

"What time did you clean the room?"

She had to have looked up the info before joining us. "From one-oh-five to one-fifteen. Sir." Her voice quavered a bit.

"Did you see anyone around the room?"

"No, sir. Just the lady who rents the room, sir."

The officer didn't glance our way. "Is she here now?"

She looked us over. "No, no, I don't think so, sir." She gave an embarrassed smile and leaned over. "The customers—they all look the same after a while," she whispered.

"Can you describe the woman?"

She thought hard and shrugged. "_Muy bonita_. Not so young as this one." She pointed to Fran. "Closer to, maybe, the other lady. Dark hair. Very tall." She gestured to an inch or two below the officer's head. I caught my breath and snuck a look at Ducky. He was listening very intently to Araceli's description. "I make the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum—she come in while I vacuum, say she forget something. She have the key for the luggage, I think it must be her room…" She was back to looking scared.

I'd caught a glimpse of Fran's luggage. Old stuff. The locks back then took a thin little key that was as secure as a diary or the mini padlocks you get in the ten cent crank dispensers near the door at the supermarket. (Am I dating myself again? I'm dating myself.) You could pop the lock with a bobby pin. Anyone with any small key on his or her key ring could open that luggage.

"Did you see what she took?"

Araceli shook her head. "No, sir, she still looking when I leave, she saying, 'I know I pack it, I know I did!' She start to swear, so I leave and close the door so she not be embarrassed," she finished in a whisper. She glanced around the officer and took in the destruction of the room. Her eyes widened and I heard a couple of words in Spanish that I couldn't translate. I don't think it was 'oh goody.'

"Do you remember anything else about the woman? What she was wearing, maybe her shoes? Did she have an accent?"

I'm sure Officer Mack wasn't trying to scare her, but he was doing it anyway. She thought for a moment, looking more and more frantic, then blurted out, "Yes! Her dress, she—" She shook her hands distractedly, looking for the words. "_Verde_ _oscuro_—" More finger fluttering. "_Forestales_?" Dark green, forest green. "A dress, short." She gestured about two inches above her knee and I made myself not smile. "Jacket. Very… classy."

"Green jacket too?" He made some quick notes.

"No, no. Yes. I mean—green and black. Mostly black but green. Like leaves. But not whole leaves."

"Like shadows?" I suggested.

She nodded emphatically.

Office Mack looked at me. "You see the woman, ma'am?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I know I have, I can see that jacket—I just can't think of where."

A quiet trill of _Scotland, the Brave_ interrupted us. Ducky looked mildly embarrassed as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. "Pardon me." He stepped aside to take the call.

"I can't _see_ it!" I smacked my clenched fist against my forehead. It was dancing at the edge of my memory; the harder I tried, the further away the memory fluttered. "Shit," I muttered.

"It'll come back to you." The second officer joined us. Her name badge was almost unreadable; they'd crammed a dozen or more consonants and a few vowels on there in the thinnest engraving possible and still only had room for her last name. I could sound out Jafi at the beginning and lost it right after that; to me, she was gonna be Jafi. "Probably at three a.m.," she added.

"I promise not to call you then."

"Thank you."

Officer Mack let Araceli go; she couldn't bail fast enough. "Which of you—" He looked from Fran to me and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Fran raised a tentative hand. "I. Me. Mine." Pick a pronoun, any pronoun.

"When did you leave the room?"

"Five 'til one."

"See anyone around the room?"

I bit back a snort. There's nowhere to hide on that floor. One end of the hall is the elevator bay. Walk out of an elevator and into a large, square sort of foyer; about ten feet of hallway ending in the double doors to the room. Next to the elevator was a small service area—locked. No chance to hide there.

Fran shook her head. "Not even the maid." At his nod, she continued. "I… met my friends at one. We had a nice long lunch, got back here and—" She spread her hands.

"Did you notice anything missing?"

"We didn't enter the room. Preservation of the crime scene," Ducky said, shutting his phone as he rejoined us. The police officers looked surprised. Ducky held out a hand. "Dr. Donald Mallard, M.E., NCIS." Jafi exchanged 'ah ha' looks with her partner. "I do apologize, but work calls," he said to all of us. He handed a business card to Officer Mack. "If you need information, please call—but I didn't see anything more than Miss Peterson or Miss Talmadge."

"You can't stay to give a—"

"We met in the lobby at one, had lunch until approximately two-fifteen, came upstairs, opened the door, discovered what had happened, did _not_ enter the room, stepped away from the room, went to the end of the hall, used the house phone to call for assistance—and that is all." Ducky rattled it off with machine precision and looked at them expectantly.

"I, ah, well—if we have any further questions—" Mack started.

Ducky nodded decisively and turned toward me and leaned close. "Will you two be all right?" he said softly.

"We'll be fine," I said, same tone. "I won't leave 'til things are settled."

"Will you be back in Reston tonight?"

It sounded like he needed me to be. "Sure."

"I'll probably be late." He looked at me guiltily.

It's bad when you haven't gotten to the scene of the crime and you know it's going to be a late night. "I'll keep things warm for you. Dinner, too," I murmured. He turned shell pink, but smiled.

He gave Fran a gentle squeeze on the arm and a light kiss to her cheek. "You take care, dear girl. Please call me later?"

"I will, I promise." She looked a little more chipper. Ducky has that effect on people.

I waited until Ducky was in the elevator. "Officer Mack?" When I had his attention, I continued. "We had an incident at Dr. Mallard's the other week. A young woman in our extended family, Lily McAllister—" I swallowed hard. "—was shot. Dr. Mallard had a good look at the woman who is a suspect in the shooting. Tall. Good looking. Brunette. Older than she." I dipped my head toward Fran. "Closer to my age."

The officers exchanged a look. "This happen in D.C.?" Jafi asked.

"Reston. Virginia."

"And other than a general description that fits a large number of women, what would be the connection?" Jafi asked mildly.

As a not-tall, not-brunette, not-_bonita_ member of the female persuasion, that rankled for some reason. I resisted the temptation to say, 'You're the pros from Dover, you tell me.' Instead I kept my voice professional and said, "Even in a high crime area, it's unusual to have two crimes in one family within less than a fortnight—short of gang activity back and forth." (That was mean of me. I don't think they know what a fortnight is.)

"Depends on the family," Mack said mildly.

Good point. "Well, we're not accustomed to being attacked in _our_ family circle. Our last contact was a shoplifter in my store swiping Tarot cards her mother didn't want her to have." (Let's forget the whole David Sutton escapade last fall, yes? Yes.) "It's just a little _odd_ to have _two_ incidents and _both_ suspects bear a strong resemblance to each other—"

Lightning struck.

Lily's shooter and Fran's ransacker had similar descriptions.

_So did Lily and Fran._

Could someone be hunting one of the girls and mistaking her for the other?

Was Lily the target?

Or was Fran?

* * *

-7-


	8. Chapter 8: Busy

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Busy**

* * *

I kept my suspicions to myself. It was plain the police were brushing it off and there was no sense pushing Fran's Defcon button up another notch.

I ducked over by the elevator and called Valerie. Around her 'oh my god!' on a repeated basis I got the story out. She told me 1) she'd take care of closing the store that night and 2) it was my solemn duty to take 'that poor girl' out and get her blasted out of her mind. Remembering Fran's lack of interest in drinking, I doubted that would happen. But chocolate might be another matter.

At the other side of the foyer I could hear Fran's quiet side of her phone call to her 'um, boss,' Cal. Oh, yeah. More than boss. For every 'nothing seems taken' and 'I don't know' were four or five 'I'm fines' and '_really_, I'm fines.' Plus the glimpse I had of her face during one of her assurances showed the slightly ditzy look of a woman hard in love. (It's easy to recognize. I see it in my own mirror often enough.)

D.C. Metro crime unit joined us fairly soon; the investigators glanced in the room and gave each other disgusted looks. Hotels, even very well maintained ones like Millennia, have fingerprints all over the place. And our mystery woman had tossed the room like a hurricane. Only the fridge appeared to be spared—and maybe the bathrooms. She had even pulled the pots and pans from the kitchen and dumped them on the floor. They asked Fran to carefully walk the room (not touching anything, even though her fingerprints were already there) and see if she could notice anything missing off the bat. Her laptop was sitting on the desk in plain view and she was _pretty_ sure nothing was missing (she blushed and actually hid behind me when they moved her clothes around to check beneath the suitcase and her underwear was exposed).

The officers let Fran put her lunch away, but we were then escorted back out to the graciously appointed holding pen by the elevator to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I pulled out a deck of cards from an inside pocket in my purse and we played Gin Rummy until we were sick of it. Then we played War. (It was the first time in my entire life I've ever finished a game of War. Like Monopoly, I thought it was something you played until you couldn't stand it any more, that nobody ever really finished the game.) Then, in desperation, we played Crazy Eights and Go Fish. (Two-handed poker just doesn't work—and neither of us knew how to play Hearts.)

About the time I was wondering if Ducky would beat me home, the police let us back in. Jafi gave Fran a card for the victim's assistance program; Mack gave me a sheet of handy tips on cleaning up after the CSU and a couple of referral numbers for companies that specialize in crime scene cleanups. (I never knew there was such an animal. Must make for interesting introductions. "Matt, Julie, this is Jim and Sally. Sally teaches junior high math and Jim cleans up crime scenes for a living." Stop a conversation cold. Or start one, with the right crowd.)

Mrs. Islington had stayed through the entire ordeal. (Mr. Rubio had been called away after only a half hour, never to return.) Fran took in the destruction of the room—first the trash-n-toss, then the liberal dusting of fingerprint powder and god knows what else—and tears welled in her big brown eyes. Mrs. Islington broke her composure a hair and gave her a motherly smile and pat on the arm. "I'll have housekeeping right up. They can take care of the actual cleaning while you—put your world back in order."

Fran nodded dumbly while she walked very slowly into the room. Mrs. Islington melted into the background and I followed Fran into the still chic (if an unholy mess) suite.

Suddenly Fran hugged herself hard. "I—I don't want to wear any of this ever again!" she burst out. She half-sat half-fell onto the couch and began to cry, great gulping, shaking sobs.

Oh, crap. Oh, _crap._ I know Evelyn has her plate full (and then some), but I really, really wanted her there with me. She's the best when it comes to comforting and consoling and, when the time is right, kicking your ass back in gear. Me? It's like I told Fran the other day, come to me with a broken leg and I'll tell you to walk it off. I sat next to Fran and hesitantly patted her back. She turned and fell onto my shoulder, weeping like crazy.

Now I was really worried. (I wanted to call Ducky and suggest we switch places.) What now?

I continued to pat her back and occasionally mumble, "It'll be okay" while I tried to pull up some sympathetic scenes out of books or movies. (It was probably the pictures we had looked at during lunch, but all I could think of was Melanie from _GWTW._ She was just a little too goody-goody for me to pull off, so I stuck with, "It'll be okay" and hoped to hell Fran would pull herself together.)

"I know that's—that's s-stupid," she sniffled. "Isn't it?" I murmured a noise that could either be assent or disagreement—whichever she wanted. "But—but it's like they're—_tainted. _Likethey're_—_they're_ dirty._" Another _mm-mmm_ noise. "But that's going to—cost me a fortune!" Hiccough-sob. "And—and that's like she's gotten me twice!"

"Uh-huh."

She sat up, eye blazing. "Well—well, _screw her_!" I didn't laugh, but I had to wonder how many times she'd said anything so vehement before.

"Nah. Un-screw her." Fran looked at me in confusion. "She's not worth screwing. Take one away."

She gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. A tiny snicker escaped. Then another. Then a louder one, then a giggle, then we were hanging on to each other, laughing hysterically. "Oh—my—god—" she finally got out. "If Ducky _had_ been my father that would have sort of made you my stepmother and you would be _such_ a cool stepmother even though you'd really just be more like an older sister a really cool older sister." She stopped and frowned. "Did that make any sense?"

"Yeah. It did." I smiled. "And thanks for the compliment."

She let out a sigh then gave me a rueful smile. "Thank you."

I shrugged lightly. "I didn't do anything."

"You listened." Her smile softened. "And you made me laugh."

Hey. Whatever works. There was a soft knock on the open door. We looked around in synch to see Araceli and two of her coworkers waiting in the doorway. I waved them in. "Come on in and join the party."

Millennia probably had classes in deportment and decorum for any member of the staff who might come in contact with the public, because not one of the three women so much as flicked an eyebrow. But they silently, politely entered the room and began detailing the rooms from the second bathroom on the far east and the bedroom on the far west working their way toward the middle sitting room.

Fran and I made like a white tornado, bagging all of her clothing to go down to the laundry (she was setting a new high for the 'complimentary laundry and dry cleaning' noted on the amenities card). Mrs. Islington had called up to remind Fran of this service and promised everything would be a rush job and back by 9 p.m. While Araceli's coworkers handled the hotel property she helped me remove the dusting powder and residue from Fran's personal items while Fran tried to put her papers and such back in some semblance of order.

The five of us made a great team. By 7:00 the place looked good enough for a photo op. Suzy Bailey had sent me a text message around 5:00 asking how things were going. (It hadn't occurred to me to call, but Ducky had, bless him.) I responded "not bad" and followed with "?" to her ETA query. She popped back that she was going to take Victoria to dinner at a particular Mexican restaurant Victoria loves but Ducky loathes—special treat. CompanionAbles needs to give her a raise. Or maybe Ducky can just adopt her.

I was right in my earlier assessment; Fran had no interest in getting bombed out of her mind. She thanked me profusely for my help and support, hugged me at least a dozen times and sent me on my way. I stopped at the gift store across the way, threw chocolate (_lots_ of chocolate), tea bags, a cute mug and a Maxine cartoon book into a basket and took it back to the hotel. I scrawled _What tea and chocolate won't cure, Maxine will put into perspective_ on the note card and tore out of town.

Only the dogs were there when I got home. They tried to convince me they were _starrrrrving_, wasting away to skin and bones. Doesn't work when Foot pulls that look on me; didn't work this time, either, despite four times the sad, pathetic look. Especially when I saw two empty dog food cans on the top of the trash.

The idea of cooking dinner was incredibly unappealing. (The idea of food, period, was unappealing. Nothing like the scent of Liver De-light wafting from the bin to make your stomach flip. I frequently hold my breath when I feed Foot. Pee-ew. And the worse it smells, the more they like it.)

The front door opened and I heard some shuffling noises in the hall. But instead of Suzy and Victoria, Ducky dragged into the kitchen looking like one of his customers. He looked around the kitchen, slightly confused.

"They're still out."

He glanced at the clock above the sink. "They've been gone over three hours." He closed his eyes briefly. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"What do you want to do about dinner? I just got here, myself."

"At this hour and as tired as I feel—and as tired as you look—I'm thinking small, simple and light."

"How about breakfast? Toast and scrambled eggs with cheese?"

"I'll cut up some ham to add in," he offered.

"Sold."

While we whipped up dinner, I gave him a quick rundown of what happened at the hotel after he left. He heartily approved of my gift basket and we both agreed we needed to keep in touch with Fran before she left. Close touch.

"So, they didn't seem impressed by the resemblance between the woman who shot Lily and the woman the maid saw?" I shook my head. "I mentioned the incident to Jethro; his opinion of the situation is quite different." He looked at me seriously. "He is not a big believer in coincidence."

The phone rang; I proved how lazy I was by leaning my chair back and reaching for the receiver. (I also proved how stupid that was when the legs skittered on the floor and I almost landed in a heap.) "Mal—lard residence," I gasped as the chair settled hard on the floor.

"Cassandra?"

"Yes?"

"It's Suzy. I didn't want you or Dr. Mallard to worry; this is the first chance I've had to call. They were holding a plant sale in the parking lot, sponsored by the horticulture department of the community college, and, well—Victoria will be quite busy all this weekend."

"Good thing her garden elf will be here."

"We'll be home in about twenty minutes."

"I'll help you unload when you get home."

"Whoops! Gotta go!"

I could only imagine, having gone out with Victoria many times, just what caused the quick sign off. "Mother has been shopping," I said, hanging up the phone.

He grabbed the edge of the table and looked at me with furrowed brow. "I'm ready. Break it to me… gently." I knew he was teasing.

"Plants and sundry growing things."

"So long as they're legal," he sighed. Before I could ask him to elaborate, his cell phone rang. "It never rains but it pours," he said with a quirked eyebrow. "Jethro, good evening, are you still at the Yard?" He listened a moment and the smile faded. "Where?" Another pause. "I agree. Thank you."

I waited patiently… for about ten seconds. "What's up?"

"The police recovered the Oldsmobile. It was found, abandoned, in a parking garage…" His eyes locked with mine. "At the Millennia Hotel."

"Interesting coincidence," I noted wryly.

"As I said, Jethro doesn't believe in coincidence. In this instance—I definitely do not, either."

Makes three of us.

/ / /

As the old saw goes, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade." Me, I'm more of a Paula Deen lemon cake girl. Or at least lemon meringue pie.

Conversely, if life hands you a bowl of cherries… whether you make jam, pie or homemade cherry-vanilla ice cream—remember to say thank you to whoever or whatever you believe sent that bowl your way. I don't care if it's a god, goddess, universal balance, karma or your long-dead Great-great Auntie Gertrude—say "thank you." Or you may not get another serving.

Whatever fickle finger of fate pushed me into the Salty Dog the same night Ducky happened to be there, I don't know. And I really don't care. I rotate my thank you list to cover everyone (or everything) out there, just in case. Because who (or whatever) nudged us into the same bubble of space did me the biggest favor imaginable. And I will forever be appropriately grateful.

People make love for a lot of different reasons. You fought and made up and tumble into bed together. You had a great day and you're celebrating. You had a normal, everyday kind of day going to work and taking care of the kids and washing the dog and dealing with her family and fending off his college buddy who called to hint at staying in the guest room for a weekend (and last time it turned into four months) and this, that and the other thing—and you catch his smile across the room or hear her laugh down the hall, and, _damn_, you fall crazy in love all over again. Whatever the start, you have two human beings together in a comfortable, safe place holding each other and keeping the rest of the world at bay. Okay, sometimes it gets routine—and if it does and you don't want it to be, hey, don't blame me. We have a decent selection of reference and how-to books in the store. Take a step. Be daring.

Ducky and I have yet to fall under "routine." And I can't imagine that we ever will. I'm not saying every time is a swing-from-the-chandelier-dress-like-Tarzan-and-Jane-multiple-encounters-in-one-night time. But quiet, gentle, slow and relaxed can be just as satisfying. It sure was that night. It wasn't a case of fight and make up or celebration or the thunderbolt from the gods that makes you fall in love all over again. Maybe it was our way of whistling in the wind, chasing away the demons that seemed to be prowling closer and closer every day.

And it did work. Of a fashion. With every kiss, every touch, every sigh the blackness of the weeks disappeared until finally we lay spooned together, Ducky's arms around me growing loose and relaxed as he fell more deeply asleep.

I, on the other hand, was wide awake.

There was a light wind in the night air, gently tossing the branches of the tree outside. The streetlamp poked through on every move, sending playful shadows on the far wall. Muted by the window sheers, they were kind of hypnotic… but not sleep inducing. After about a half an hour of watching the light ballet on the wall—and once Ducky had moved around enough that I could slip out without disturbing him—I went downstairs to find something that might lull me to sleep.

It wasn't quite the weather for it, but I made a big mug of hot chocolate, popped some oatmeal raisin cookies on a plate and curled into the corner of the sofa. With the TV volume on low (Victoria would never hear it, but Radar Mallard upstairs might), I surfed through the channels. (It's amazing. Back when it was just the Big Three, there was so much more to choose from. We'd actually squabble over what to watch. Ducky and I have about 300 channels on each of our cable systems—slightly different packages, but about the same number total—and at least half the time it's mostly crap. Sci-Fi, Food Network, USA and Turner Movies are my fallbacks; if Lynx ever drops them from my lineup, I'm canceling my service.)

God bless Turner Movies. Robert Osborne, j'adore. What Alton Brown is to trivial cooking facts, Robert Osborne is to film. (I wouldn't be surprised to find Tony DiNozzo the head of his fan club.) The theme of the month was film noir; he was winding up his comments on the ultimate classic of noir, _The Maltese Falcon_ (set to air Saturday night) and commenting on some of the femme fatales of the genre: Stanwyck, Bacall, Lake— "And a personal favorite of mine, Maxine Arthur—" I grinned. Yea, Auntie Max! "—who will be showcased this Sunday on the anniversary of her death—" My grin dropped and my shoulders actually slumped.

Damn.

It wasn't just for Fran—a hope that she could coax information from 'Auntie Max'—but she sounded like such a cool person. I was kind of hoping Ducky might want to take a mini-vacation to California and visit her.

"Arthur's usual role was a tough gal on the fringes of the activity. Sassy, brassy, sometimes scandalous, her real life was almost as complex as one of her films." The screen showed a shot of Maxine in her heyday, looking kind of like a platinum Veronica Lake. "She made quite a name for herself playing intelligent women in control of their lives. Interesting to note that her favorite movie was the only one without her trademark platinum blond hair. She played the female lead in _Silent Partners_, opposite Cary Grant and Randall Carson. As the power behind the throne of an international crime family, her performance has been compared to Angela Lansbury in _The Manchurian Candidate_." The screen changed to a black and white picture of Maxine and the marvelous Mr. Grant, Maxine looking at him with a bemused look and poor Cary looking like ten miles of really bad road. "It was on _Silent Partners_ that Arthur met her first of four husbands—"

I stopped listening. I leaned forward, staring at the screen.

_I must be getting punchy. I'm hallucinating the craziest things._

I carefully set my mug on the floor and padded over to Ducky's desk. _No—not his computer… just in case_. I pulled my laptop case from beside the desk and dragged it back to the couch. With _The Postman Always Rings Twice _playing in the background, I plugged it in and fired it up, absently watching the screen go from black to blue to wallpaper (Edvard Munch's _The Scream_; it's too apropos too many times). Still feeling somewhat detached, I typed in the IMDb address, then _Maxine Arthur_ in the search box. I clicked from page to page, person to person, from one website to another, finding some really obscure bits of information along the way, until I was back at my original page. I set the computer on the coffee table and fetched my purse from the coat rack in the hall; Fran's box of photos was still in there. With the fan of the laptop humming softly, I quickly sorted the stack of photos into piles. Pictures of Marielle's artwork. Pictures of Marielle's drawings of Fran. Pictures of Marielle. Pictures of Fran. Group pictures. Pictures from before Marielle's move to California. And pictures of when she had lived in Santa Monica.

The last pile wasn't large. But having looked at Ducky's albums the past week, I knew every picture in them by heart—and none of these pictures were in there. Yes, it was mostly the same people—Marielle, Ducky, Maxine, many of the other tenants. But here and there would be a strange face, a new young man or woman added into the mix.

I stared at one particular young man—dark hair bleached lighter by the sun and surf, his gaze intense. Even though he was at the far edge of the crowd in the few pictures I found him in, I knew he had eyes like bittersweet chocolate.

Just like Fran's.

_Well. That answers a couple of questions._

_And raises even more._

/ / /

Amazingly enough, I slept like a rock when I went back upstairs. My mind was still reeling; I really should have been pacing the floor all night. (Hell, pacing the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling and down the other side.) But shock sometimes brings calm in its' wake. Maybe it's a matter of overload: I can't take any more; I'm going to shut down. So I closed down the computer and put it away, turned off the TV, straightened the couch pillows, cleaned up my snack, patted Izzy (who had crept in and sat near me, staring quizzically as I wandered the web) and went back upstairs. I slipped back into bed; Ducky rolled over and cuddled me close, never waking. The digital clock read 12:59; I never saw it hit 1:00.

Morning was a gloriously slow wakeup. We were both awake almost an hour before the alarm, and found a jim-dandy way to occupy ourselves for that time—forty-five minutes of it, anyway. I didn't want to lose even one minute before reveille and snuggled against Ducky's side, my head resting on his chest. My mind wandered in odd directions. "I just realized," I said. "We've never fought."

"_That_ certainly wasn't fighting," he laughed.

"Not by a long shot. But it just dawned on me. We've never fought. We've had some minor disagreements, a couple of snarky moments… but the only thing I'd consider a squabble is where we're going to live after we get married."

"Let's both retire, throw a dart at a map and move there."

"Fat chance. We'd end up in Broken Moosejaw, Oklahoma."

"Is there such a place?"

"Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts?"

"_That_, I recognize. Lovely place."

"Spotsylvania?"

"Lake Wobegon?"

"Where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average." I did a fair Garrison Keillor imitation.

"I have a sudden desire for powdermilk biscuits."

"It's powdermilk biscuits you desire…?"

The arm draped around my back pulled me closer. "Among other things."

I kissed the tip of his chin. "Glad I made the cut."

"Top o' the list."

"So—where _are_ we going to live?"

He twisted around slightly and looked in my eyes. "_Must_ we discuss this now?" he said plaintively.

"Nah. Plenty of time for squabbling later."

"Oh, I hope not." He gave me a sad look when I smacked the alarm just as it started to hum and slithered out of bed. "Come back?"

"So much for your Protestant work ethic, Dr. Mallard," I said archly. "Today _is_ a work day."

"I'm only human," he said with a dramatic sigh. He tossed back the covers. "Would you like the shower first?"

"I'll use the other bathroom. I have to wash my hair; don't want you dying from boredom." The bath in the master suite is much nicer and roomier, but the second bath is quite useable.

"I appreciate the consideration," he said with an easy grin. "You know," he continued, grabbing his robe from the foot of the bed, "I thought you'd say our only real fight was over my refusal to tell Francesca her father's name."

Good thing he was facing the other way. The flame on my cheeks would have been a dead giveaway. "Well, since you brought it up—"

"No," he said pleasantly. He dropped a kiss to the point of my shoulder in passing.

I thought about it—what I was calling Fran's Dilemma—all during my shower. I had the answer (well, I was _pretty sure_ I had the answer) but I was a little, well, squeamish about going behind Ducky's back and telling her. I'd already distressed him by not coming to him when I first got wind of the family tree; if I went off on a tangent, half-cocked, I'd send him into orbit. I've heard tales that, when properly riled, he has one hell of a temper. Frankly, I'd rather as not see it firsthand.

I skipped down to the kitchen, wet hair bouncing against my back. To my surprise, Victoria was alone in the kitchen, happily dipping toast fingers in egg yolk and feeding them to the dogs.

"Mother, breakfast is for you, not Tyson."

"But, he's hungry!"

"No, he's not. He's overfed. You need that breakfast more than he does." I looked around. "Where's Donald?"

She mimicked my glance. "I have no idea."

I gave her a severe finger wag as I left the kitchen. "You eat that breakfast. Not the dogs. Understood?"

She pouted, but nodded. As I walked out the door, I heard a mournful, "Cassandra says no…" behind me. Good. At least she was listening—this time.

"Oh, there you are." Ducky was standing next to the coffee table. "What are—" I broke off when he looked up.

Hurt.

Disappointed.

The same look when I'd told him that, yes, I knew about Fran before she showed up on our doorstep.

Oh, crap.

"What's wrong?" I managed.

"Why were you looking through the box of photographs last night?" he asked quietly. Damn; I thought I'd put everything back in order.

Straightforward question. Straightforward answer. "I couldn't sleep. I came downstairs to watch TV for a while. TCM was talking about their month long special and mentioned Sunday was a tribute to Maxine Arthur. She—she passed away a year ago." Ducky sighed at that. "They showed a picture of her, one movie she did without her bleach job and—" Now _I_ sighed and shrugged my shoulders. "The picture, it—it looked just like Fran. Just. Like. Fran. So I—I looked around on the internet, I looked at the pictures—" I'm sure I looked as guilty as I felt. "Maxine—Maxine was Fran's grandmother, wasn't she?"

Ducky was silent for a long moment. Then he let out a long, slow breath and nodded. "Yes. Yes, she was." His voice was barely audible.

I nodded. Yeah… the look in her eyes when she held Fran was just like Victoria's when she was with Charlie. The undying adoration only a grandmother has. I reached over and plucked the top picture from the pile. "Her father?" I held my breath.

Ducky nodded slowly. He wouldn't tell me—but confirming a guess was something else. "Does he know?" I continued.

"I don't know," he sighed. "He—he wasn't there when I came back to California. I didn't press Marielle for the details even though—well, there was only one man it _could_ have been." He sat down heavily. "He was… very charismatic. Particularly with young women."

I sat down next to him, one leg tucked under. "So is Fran—" I looked for a delicate way to put it. "Does she have… brothers and sisters?"

He shook his head. "Not that I know of."

"What harm would there be in telling Fran? I don't know about her father, but she'd be thrilled to find out 'Auntie Max' had been her grandmother." I stopped short. "Her father—is he married? Do you know?"

He looked at me oddly. "Yes."

"Does he have other children? Is that why you—"

Ducky shook his head again. "No. As I said—not that I've heard."

Not that he had _heard_. Hmm. To me, that sounds like he's a 'name.' 'In the business,' as it were. Given that his mother was Maxine Arthur and his dad—well, stepdad—was Paul Cameron (whose credit list is longer than a greedy kid's Christmas wish list), it was not unlikely that he was in the film industry.

"Fran has a whopping inheritance waiting for her. It's not fair to deny her that, if nothing else."

He gave me a sharp look. "How do you know that?"

"It's amazing what you can find on the internet. Maxine's will was probated very quickly, almost a year ago; everything is in trust. The L.A. Times had an article on her death; she left almost everything to, quote, 'my grandchild-slash-ren' end quote. She made note that her only child, Francis, had already received his inheritance while she was alive, and everything else except for a few bequests goes to the unnamed grandchild-slash-ren. And that her attorney had private papers regarding said grandchild-slash-ren. Maxine owned a good deal of real estate. Bought back when it was dirt cheap, I'm sure. And then there are stocks, bonds… It's worth quite a bit. Three numbers before the _first_ comma." My theory that Fran and Lily had been mistaken for each other was making a lot more sense. Almost seven hundred fifty million is a good reason to kill someone. "It's all in trust. Waiting for _Maxine's grandchild_ to step forward."

He actually looked guilty.

"She didn't spell out Fran's name…"

He shook his head. "She didn't need to. Marielle had no problem acknowledging Maxine—in private, anyway. Outside…" He shrugged. "The only people who knew who Francesca's father was were the three of us—and, one might presume, the young man in question."

"Though you're not sure."

He shook his head.

"So. Francis. Frank? He's in the business, right?"

He tipped his head and looked at me speculatively. "Yes."

Frank Arthur. Francis Arthur. Neither one had pulled up on IMDb—well, not anyone that looked likely, anyway. "Does he go by another name or something?" I asked in desperation. Ducky dropped his gaze. "Ducky—"

"Cassandra, _please_!" It was an anguished groan—with a small snap overlay.

I knew he was under a hell of an emotional load. Overload, even. So I didn't snark back in kind. While he wrestled with his soul, I tried to remember what I'd read on Maxine's IMDb page. Four husbands; five marriages. Number 2 was repeated as 5. Marriage number one was a record breaker. Longer than Brittany Spears and Jason Alexander (longer than Cher and Gregg Allman, even), they made it almost a month before getting a quickie Mexican divorce. There was speculation that the marriage was a sham, a 'beard'—bolstered by Randy Carson's tell-all bio in the 80s—but _something_ happened at least once, because two months later Maxine was running around in maternity tops. Randy (aptly named) stepped up to the plate; they remarried (so technically it was four husbands, _six_ marriages), resumed screaming matches in Beverly Hills—and two weeks after Francis was born, they re-divorced and never crossed paths again (not even during his book tour and big interview on Phil Donahue). About a year and a half later, she married husband number two (and five), Paul Cameron. They made it a little over sixteen years before very quietly splitting up. Husband number three was a tragedy; they were only married two weeks when he died of a heart attack on the golf course. She had bad luck with her next husband, as well—he was in some branch of the military and died in a training exercise off San Diego barely a month later. Paul Cameron showed up to offer condolences at the funeral; something rekindled and they ended up back together again—and were together to the end; he died in his sleep at the relatively young age of 81. (He was a good deal older than Maxine.) She was truly broken-hearted over the loss and never looked at another man for the rest of her life. Despite their three-year hiatus, as it were, he had been the real love of her life, a great husband and stepfather.

Stepfather.

Hmm.

I picked up a picture of Marielle and Ducky laughing over the birthday cake of another tenant (the cake was _covered_ in candles; it had to be one of the much elder residents); in the background, Maxine was having a discussion with Frank; she looked serious, he looked like he was blowing her off.

Stepfather.

Paul Cameron.

I squinted at the picture. Frank was in the shadows; it gave a darker cast to his hair and made him look older than his thirty-some years. Older—

-and more familiar.

But… Frank Cameron still rang zero bells.

I wracked my brain. Okay. Paul Cameron. Before him, Edward Dallas. (Dallas? No. Travis? Austin? Some Texas town. Oh, yeah. Gorman.) Colonel Edward Gorman. Before that— I closed my eyes. He was a musician or something. Something about soundtracks. Not Jerry Goldsmith. Not Gil Melle. Not John Williams. Al… Al…bert. Albert. Albert Diaz. Then Paul Cameron, the first time. And what was probably a studio-arranged marriage to her _Silent Partners_ co-star—

"Oh, my god."

Ducky slowly raised his pained face to my shocked one.

"You loved Marielle like a sister. Any big brother would hate the man who got his sister—'in the family way.'" (I quickly edited out 'knocked up.') "Cameron Carson." The names of his father and stepfather. Ducky actually sagged a little. I shook my head slowly. "I don't blame you one bit."

He looked absolutely miserable. I leaned over and gathered him into a hug. "Oh, Cassandra…" He held on tightly.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to hurt you. Really, I didn't."

"_I'm_ not hurt." He sighed heavily. "I suppose, at this juncture… telling Francesca the truth is the best idea."

Oh, thank heavens. I really didn't want to go behind his back. But I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself. "If Cameron Carson _is_ Fran's father," I said slowly, "why would he try to hurt her? I'm assuming there was a mistake, confusing Lily and Fran at first. Why would CC—"

Ducky looked almost pained. "I assure you. The woman I met _was_ a woman. _Not_ a man in drag."

I laughed slightly. "I never through you'd make a mistake like that. But—it could have been a friend. Or his agent? I dunno… but he's worth a gazillion dollars. What Maxine left is a fortune to a normal mortal, but CC has made the Forbes list every year since 1980. I don't see him risking the jail time killing Fran. Hell, risking the _publicity_. He's still smoothing waters from his latest stint in rehab."

"Or…" Ducky looked aghast. "_Avoiding_ publicity? If it were known he had a child out of wedlock back then—"

Shades of Susan Smith. I felt acutely ill. "Wait." I sat up sharply. "His big speech out of rehab." I could hear it, clear as a bell. "'I have a new need, a new resolve… I want to thank my fans, my _family_—'" I looked at Ducky, dead serious. "He was an only child. His mother is dead. His father is dead. The stepfather who raised him is dead. Other than his wife—_what family_?"

"Francesca," Ducky said slowly.

"So… he knows," I said in a similar tone. "Maybe he didn't before—but he does, now."

"He didn't sound negative." Ducky cocked his head. "Quite the contrary. He sounded almost… ebullient."

"I'm back to thinking his agent is behind this. The old adage, 'any publicity is good publicity' is not necessarily true. If CC's popularity drops—well, ten per cent of nothing is nothing."

Ducky has seen some pretty ugly things in his career—but this one rocked even him. "People have killed for myriad reasons. While I cannot condone the action, in some cases I can at least comprehend what drove them to the deed. And some people, well, for _no_ reason."

"Evil is as evil does." Thank you, Forrest Gump.

"Exactly. But this?" He sat and just shook his head over and over for a minute. After a heavy sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a programmed number and waited. "Penthouse West, please." I drew in a shaky breath. "Francesca, my dear, good morning. It's Ducky. I hope I didn't wake you?" Pause. "Do you have plans for the day? We were wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch again. Or perhaps join us for dinner?" Longer listening pause. "Oh, well I'm very glad I called! We'd be happy to pick you up." More listening, his face growing graver as time ticked by. "Oh… oh, my dear, I am so sorry."

I swallowed hard. Oh, shit, now what? I tried not to think of the possibilities.

Ducky continued to listen. "Who? Do they have a name?" Pause. Visible flinch. "Ah. Yes. Well…" Long pause. "Most curious…"

I hate one-sided conversations. You can imagine all sorts of things on the other end of the line.

"No, that would be fine. And this time, it's _my_ treat," he said firmly. "Of course it's no trouble! We'll see you then, my dear."

I refrained from attacking him, yelling, 'what, what?' and contented myself with a curious look. A _very_ curious look.

"Francesca's father called last night. He's been out of town most of the time she's been gone, working on a film. The first thing he did upon returning home, he went out to see Marielle." He sighed heavily. "She has…become more withdrawn."

More? I didn't think that was possible—short of full-blown catatonia.

"She stopped painting, stopped drawing. She just sits and stares at the pictures of Francesca, huddled over them as though to protect them."

"Like when she was drawing them originally." He nodded. "Like… she's hiding her, keeping her secret." Another nod. I wanted to cry. Or be sick.

"She had had two visitors who apparently sparked this spiral. The first was just over a month ago, a celebrity who caused quite a stir and visited because he had heard from a mutual friend that someone he worked with long ago was ill," he said in a mildly mocking tone.

"Let me guess. CC?" I asked with a slight snort.

"The very same. The second was a woman, about two weeks ago. A very attractive redhead who claimed to be Marielle's half-sister who had lost touch for all these years."

"And Marielle doesn't have a half-sister." It wasn't a question.

"Only child. And during the time I knew Marielle, I never heard a hint of a sibling born on the wrong side of the blanket. Francesca sounded quite dubious, especially when her father told her the name of this alleged half-sister." He gave me a dour look. "Maxine Arthur."

"Cute," I muttered.

"Since her 'sister' visited, she hides in the corner of her room, wrapped around those tiny bits of paper. She has to be forcibly dragged out to eat or bathe…"

Now I was getting pissed. "Who the hell was this woman? For real? And what did she say to Marielle?" I flipped my hand. "Of course," I scoffed, answering my own question. "She threatened Fran. Or said something Marielle took as a threat. 'Sis' is the fruitloop who shot Lily and ransacked Fran's room, I'll bet my socks."

"No argument from my quarter."

"Ducky… would you feel comfortable calling Fran's dad? I just have this hinky feeling… maybe he might know something that he didn't tell Fran, or something she didn't think to mention to you, that might link the three women together."

"I agree—however…" He frowned. "I'm not… sanguine… with calling Mr. Peterson."

Can't blame him, really. "Well," I said slowly, "does he know about what happened to Fran yesterday?" (It was only yesterday? Holy shit.)

"I believe so."

"Maybe… you could get Gibbs to call? I mean, NCIS _is_ in charge of Lily's shooting—because they thought the shooter was coming after you. And you said Gibbs noticed the 'coincidence' between Fran's smash-and-grab and Lily's attack," I said hopefully.

"True…" Ducky was nodding, mulling it over. "And Jethro _is_ rather skilled at getting people to remember details."

Boy, is he.

"I will… forward that suggestion." He leaned over and gave me a kiss. "Could you pick us both up for lunch? Francesca is going back to Los Angeles a few days early and is turning back her rental car after her appointment this morning, but expressed great interest in lunch at the Hippy Gypsy."

"Sure. I can pick you up, then get Fran at the rental agency—or vice versa. Does she need a ride to the airport?"

He looked so grateful I almost cried. "I didn't think to ask."

"I will. You head off to work—" I draped my arms around his neck. "—and I will call you after I talk to Fran. Okay?"

"You… have been pretty marvelous about all of this." I was startled; he'd been less than pleased a number of times of late, and with pretty good reason. "This was a lot for anyone to deal with. You were blindsided—but you rallied wonderfully." He reached up to cup my cheek. "You have such a warm heart. I'm not surprised to see you defending Francesca. And… while I couldn't agree with what you asked of me—I could understand how you felt."

Even though it was only the two of us, I was acutely embarrassed. I felt like he was praising me far too highly. "I like her," I managed. "I feel sorry for her—but I like her, too." It was true. Once I, well, once I felt she was no longer a threat, I could view her as just another person on the planet. She's intelligent, talented, well-read, funny, and just a little bit of a social misfit. (Sound like anyone you know?)

"I'm glad. I think… she can use all the friends she can get," he sighed.

Aye-men.

Ducky threw his briefcase and laptop and, well, everything into the Morgan's boot and tore off down the street (good thing Victoria didn't see him, she would have had a fit); he was about an hour late, I realized guiltily. He had meant to get up at six to catch up on some paperwork, and we had left the alarm set for 7:15. Oops.

I kept Victoria company until Suzy arrived not much later. I reassured her that Charlie would be there that weekend, and probably Lily (and Evvie), too. That left her in a cheerful enough mood that I was able to leave for work without her asking to tag along to the store. I don't mind her being there, but between meeting Fran for lunch and the fact that we were without Geoff for the day it would have been less than ideal.

As I drove into the city, I called Fran. "Hope I'm not disturbing your breakfast—"

"Nah, I've been up since about five."

"That's, like, what? Two L.A. time?"

"Yeah. I usually get up around five, so I was screwed up the first couple of days. When I get back home, I'll be getting up at one or two until I re-acclimate."

"So. Let's nail down the game plan. When do you have to get the car back?"

"Not until six. But I figured it would be easier to take it back at noon and then just take the shuttle from the hotel to the airport. My flight isn't until nine, so I'll get some reading done tonight. I land about midnight L.A. time." I could hear the 'ugh' in her voice. "I rescheduled my appointment for this morning—I was going to leave in about ten minutes."

"How about this. I meet you at Pegasus, you turn back the car, I pick you up, we go pick up Ducky and go to lunch, then I can take you to the airport on the way home. You have to be there at, what, seven?"

"Well, yes—but, Cassandra, that's so far out of your way! And the time—"

"Nonsense," I said briskly. "You said you wanted to see the store, right?"

"Well, yes—"

"Here's your chance. What time should I meet you there?"

"Actually—I can drop it off in town and take the Metro back to the hotel. That would be easier for you, yes?"

"You sure it wouldn't be more of a hassle for you?"

"Please. I ride RTD and what we laughingly have as a subway all the time."

I shivered. "You saw _Volcano_, right?"

"Cassandra… it's make believe," she teased.

"Tell Tommy Lee Jones. So… pick you up at noon? Half past? Will that be enough time for your appointment and to get back?"

"Half past is perfect. That's plenty of time. This is so sweet of you!"

"Totally selfish. We love showing off our local restaurants."

Agreeing that I'd call her when a few minutes away from the hotel and meet her upstairs, I rang off and pushed the accelerator down a little further.

/ / /

By the time I arrived, there was a message on my cell from Ducky letting me know that his schedule was going to be scrambled that morning; a deposition scheduled for the next week was being moved to today, but they should be done by one at the latest. I texted back that that would work perfectly; pick up Fran at 12:30, Ducky at 1:00, lunch, drop him back at work, then play at the store until about six. He was willing to excuse my absence at dinner given that I was driving Fran to the airport. I shot back that I was working on a Girl Scout badge.

I blitzed the rest of the online listings from Pippa's store (believe it or not, I actually _do_ do some work at the store) and felt pretty darn satisfied by the time noon rolled around. I was pleasantly surprised (nay, shocked) to get a call from Lily who sounded disgustingly alert and chipper. "How the hell are you?"

"Great," she responded. "Well, relatively speaking."

"Lily, I think I hate your guts. I had my wisdom teeth out and thought I was at death's door. You sound like you just went out for a pedicure!"

"I've got a high pain threshold," she said apologetically. "Listen, I'm on my way to a parent-teacher conference—"

"They do that for summer school?" I almost gasped. That's just mean.

"Heck, yeah. So. I was calling for a couple of reasons. We're still on for the weekend, yes?"

"I sure hope so. I already told Victoria we are. And she has a crapload of things to plant. Although I'm wondering if I may have to cry off—I just got caught up on the online listings and I'm way behind on a lot of stuff around here…"

"Hey, we'd be happy to stay for the weekend so you and Ducky can have some alone time," she teased.

I though back on this morning (and last night) and blushed. "We do quite fine for alone time, thank you very kindly," I said loftily.

She giggled. "Good. Now, second thing on my 'bug Sandy' list is… have you heard anything about the case? I know Agent Gibbs said to call, but I figure they're probably crazy busy and since you have an 'in' at the office…"

"Believe me, if Gibbs is too busy to talk, he'll tell you. But I'm not a hundred per cent sure what's going on—but there's a good suspicion—" I took a deep breath. "We think that you were shot by someone going after Fran." 'We.' Yeah.

There was a long silence. "Someone—someone was trying to kill Ducky's daughter?" she finally managed. I bit back a gasp. "Oh, sorry. I—I still think of her as Ducky's daughter, even though I know she isn't. But—someone is trying to kill her? Good god, why?"

"It… has to do with who her real father is. And an inheritance. Ducky—Ducky's going to tell her the truth, who her father is. As soon as he's done that—if Fran says it's okay, I'll give you the details."

"I understand," she said quietly. "But—how did they figure out that someone mistook me for her?"

"Well… yesterday someone snuck into her hotel room and totally trashed the place. Looking for something. And the description of the woman that the maid saw sounds a lot like the woman who shot you."

She made a little hissing noise. "God, I actually just got chills."

"And the car was found abandoned—in the parking lot at Fran's hotel."

"Oh, my god, why don't they have that girl in protective custody or something?"

"Well, DC Metro doesn't think there's a link. And while your case is still in NCIS's jurisdiction—sort of—Fran's isn't. There's only so much they can do, I guess. But the good news, is, she's heading back to L.A. early. Tonight."

"Good," she said firmly. "Not that I want to see her go—I actually kind of wanted to meet her—but I'd rather see her safe than have tea and crumpets."

"I know what you mean."

"And that answers the third question I had—'how's Fran?'"

"Amazingly enough, pretty cool about the whole thing. Of course, she comes from Hollywood—she may be faking it."

"Me? I'd be scared shitless." Lily blew out a sigh. "Well, better haul ass or I'll be marked tardy. I'll check with you later, okay?"

"Okay. Drive safely!"

"Always do."

_Scared shitless._ I hung up the receiver. Yeah… that puts it about right.

/ / /

Google Maps plots the path to the Millennia at 14 minutes. Google has never driven in DC traffic. I know that, on a good day, it's 25 minutes. I hit a couple of surprise stretches of clear traffic and hit 18 when I got close. Driving in DC is talent—and luck.

I was negotiating the 'this is a one way street _this_ direction, but its counterpart is one way _that_ direction and you can't get there from here!' fun that anyone who drives in DC understands and figured it was close enough to give Fran her 'Eagle is landing' warning call. She answered on the third ring, her "Hello!" a trifle breathless.

"Am I too early? You sound like you just got there."

"No, no, I was just trying to catch the bellman. He took all my junk downstairs so we don't have to schlep it when you get here, I just noticed he missed a bag and didn't catch him at the elevator in time. It's no biggie, we can take it downstairs when you get here. I just—oh, hang on, maybe he noticed the count was off. Someone's at the door."

I listened to her clatter the phone on the table, then a faint, "Hello? I'm sorry, do I—" and a noise I desperately didn't want to recognize. A sharp _bang!_ like a car backfiring.

And what the hell kind of car is in the living room of a penthouse suite?

Even as I shrieked, "_**FRAN!**_" (making the taxi driver parked by the side of the road turn and stare) I knew what that ugly noise was: a gunshot.

A loud cry of shock and pain. Probably Fran. Possibly me. Could be both. Sounds of a small scuffle, something—or someone—falling, hard.

"Fran!" I was shaking, crying. Behind me, people honked as I ignored the green light. "Fran, Fran, Jesus, Fran, answer me!" I screamed. "Fr—"

My cell phone went silent as someone hung up the receiver. I stared at the dashboard mount, at the tiny black screen:

CALL ENDED

01:04 MIN/SEC

* * *

-8-


	9. Chapter 9: Making

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Making**

* * *

Shock.

Horror.

Scared out of my effing mind.

Glad as hell I was sitting down, even if it was behind the wheel of a ton or so of Detroit steel that I really had no business driving in my state of mind.

The light was red again. Pissed-off drivers were looping around me telling me where to go, how to get there and what to do once I got there.

I grabbed the phone and started to dial 911 with shaking hands. I stopped. No, no—by the time they got there— I redialed the hotel number. "Millennium Hotel, how may I dir—"

"Security," I interrupted. "Head of Security, Jim Rubio, this is an emergency!" Good thing he has the same name as a fish taco shop I like. It all comes down to food with me.

"James Rubio."

"Penthouse West! There's been a shooting! Close down the hotel, call the paramedics—!"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down ma'am. Now who are—"

"I'm Cassandra Talmadge, I was there yesterday when Fran Peterson's room was ransacked, I was just talking to her and I heard her get shot, for god's sake, do something!" I all but screamed.

"You _heard_ her get shot?"

I clenched my fist, my whole body shaking with frustration. "Yes! I'm coming to pick her up, she set down the phone to answer the door, I heard a shot, will you just goddamned _do something_! She could be dying!" _She could be dead_, something evil whispered in the back of my mind.

_Shut up. Just shut the fuck up._

"I'm putting you on hold. Just a minute."

Classical music filled my ear. I put the phone back on speaker mode, jammed it into the dashboard cradle and floored the van through the once again green light.

I had been smugly glorying in the clear roads for almost half the trip; now, everyone and their cousins were on the road and none of them would— "Get out of my way!" I screamed. Nobody on New Hampshire moved. I could see the top of the Millennium from where I was, frustrating me even further. It was a temptation to abandon the van and run the last blocks.

The music cut off. "Where are you, Miss Talmadge?" At least he sounded serious, now.

"Almost there, I'm almost there—" Traffic was, blessedly, starting to move again. "Is she—"

"Police and paramedics are on their way. The hotel is on lockdown; I'll need to escort you onto the premises." Before I could ask why I rated access (not that I was objecting; I would have stormed the castle anyway) he said, "If Miss Peterson _is_ hurt, I thought it would help her to have you there."

I started to cry. "Thank you. I'm almost there."

"I'll meet you in front." He clicked off.

Ducky. Oh, god, _Ducky_. "Call Autopsy!" I yelled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Could you please repeat your request?" The voice recognition chip actually sounded irritated.

Cell phones don't translate hysteria well. "Call. Autopsy," I repeated, forcing my voice to be calm and measured. I took a deep breath, pushing my tears out of existence.

"Call Autopsy?"

"_Yes_." It's like confirming 'yes, delete this file' four times. Supposedly this makes for safer driving. Not by me.

_Be there, please, please, please, be there_— "Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."

"Oh, god, Ducky—" I started to cry again. I've turned into a real waterfall this past month. Not my usual; I can't wait for life to get back to normal.

"Cassandra, what's—"

"It's Fran." I couldn't see the road clearly. I wiped angrily at my eyes and took the curve cautiously. I wouldn't help Fran if I wrapped myself around a light pole. "She's been shot."

"_**WHAT?**_"

I've never heard him yell like that before. "Oh, Ducky, I was talking to her on the phone, someone came to the door—" I was goddamned _weeping_. "I heard her get shot!"

"Where are you?"

"About to make the turn into Millennium."

"I'll be right there."

"They've locked—" I was talking to empty air. Oh, what the hell. He has credentials. Nobody's going to stop him. Heaven help them if they try to.

True to his word, the imposing Mr. Rubio was waiting at the curb. When he saw me leap out of the van, he waived 'come hither' to one of the valets who sprang into the driver's seat and smoothly pulled away—good, they hire people who can drive standard.

"All the elevators are on lockdown," Rubio said quietly as soon as I was within earshot. "Only west bay elevators go to Penthouse West, just as only the east bay goes to Penthouse East, south to Penthouse South and so forth. But if you take any of them one floor down, you can access all four bays." I nodded; I'd seen that configuration before. If Fran's shooter—(my hands started to shake again)—had gotten off the floor, she could have hit a total of eight different elevators around the hotel including the two for the west wing. (Yes, _she_. I just _knew_ it was the same woman. I just knew it.)

"I have two members of my team walking the private access stairs to PHW," he continued, walking me in the front door. He exchanged minute nods with the gentleman in a black suit whose sidearm looked classy and mildly intimidating as opposed to flat-out scary. "They're escorting the staff physician—" Nice to see some things don't change. Hotel doctors still exist—in the high rent hotels, anyway. "—and once they verify it's clear, Dr. Potter can check on Miss Peterson. The EMTs are on the way, but still several minutes out." I flicked the top of my tongue rapidly over the backs of my front teeth, a nervous habit from childhood. "At that point, we'll release the service elevator, clear it, and get you upstairs to be with your friend. You'll have to stay out of the way," he cautioned, even as I burst into tears yet again.

"I will, I will," I vowed.

I tried to stand still, to summon some sort of Zen calm, but it didn't work. I went from folding my hands tightly and rubbing the thumbs against each other (until a rough nail did some nifty damage) to shifting back and forth from foot to foot, slow rocking growing faster and faster. I probably looked like R2D2 having a tizzy fit.

Time slowed to a standstill. Mrs. Islington appeared from nowhere, conferred with Mr. Rubio, gave me a sympathetic smile and disappeared once again. I'll bet nobody screws around on her shift. Ever.

The cops arrived. The EMTs were still en route. (The station that normally handles this area was out on a call. The next closest station that serves as backup was… out on a call. As was the next. It was a crappy day in DC to call 911. I heard one Metro officer say it had routed down _six_ levels. They were probably coming from Maryland.)

But if the paramedics were slow to respond, NCIS was quick. (Understatement. I think they have a transporter in Abby's lab.) Yes, NCIS. Gibbs flashed his tin, coolly said this crime was linked to an ongoing NCIS investigation and nobody batted an eye as he and his team sailed into the hotel. They didn't even question why the Medical Examiner was there when nobody had made mention of a body.

"Penthouse is clear," Rubio announced. "We still have the passenger elevators on lockdown—and some of the guests are… growing impatient." Pitching a bitch, more like it. The Metro officer in charge gave a few terse orders; several officers dispersed while one joined Alpha Cop and trotted off toward the back of the hotel. "Special Agent Gibbs…?"

They stepped a foot or two away, well within my earshot. "My understanding is that you suspect the break-in yesterday—and, by extension, the shooting today—are linked to the attack on your Medical Examiner?"

"That's right." Gibbs is _so_ loquacious.

Rubio glanced toward Ducky. "And you can identify the woman who shot at you Dr.—" You could almost see him flipping through the Post-its in his head. "—Mallard?"

"Yes," Ducky said confidently.

Rubio nodded. "Good. We'll start opening up the elevators one at a time—starting with the west wing. Take them a non-stop route to the lobby, we have staff—" Security, no doubt. "—ready to escort the guests and visitors to one of our conference rooms. We're presenting it that all of them may have information that could assist us."

"Never let a suspect know they're a suspect," Gibbs said. Wonder if he has that cross-stitched on a pillow.

"Exactly." Rubio turned to Ducky. "I'd like you and Agent Gibbs to be in the room. Just… in the background."

"See if anyone matches?" Gibbs was still being his usual remote, if mildly charming, self.

"Yes." This time Rubio's glance included me. "Once Metro gives us the go-ahead, we'll get you upstairs to be with your friend."

I nodded dumbly, almost missing Ducky's startled look.

Rubio raised a finger slightly. "One moment." He listened intently to a voice only he could hear. "Let's move this to the Mikado Room. The first elevator is on the way down."

Gibbs glanced at his team standing quietly on the side. A look, an infinitesimal head jerk; apparently he's installed some sort of psychic connection, because McGee, DiNozzo and my favorite no-longer-Israeli-assassin (darn it), Ziva David, quietly went in three different directions. Gibbs followed Rubio, Ducky followed Gibbs, and I kept pace with Ducky. The company was far more pleasant. Jimmy Palmer trailed behind all of us, looking slightly lost.

"Are you all right?" Ducky asked softly.

My nod was more of a nervous twitch. "I'm okay." As okay as you _can_ be hearing someone shot over your phone. I can't imagine how Ducky stood it, _watching_ Lilly get shot.

The first guests were being escorted into the conference room when we arrived. Mom, Dad and two teens intent on re-defining sullen. (Something tells me they wanted to go to Disney, not the Washington Monument.) It was a slam-dunk they weren't involved (though I flashed on _True Lies_ for a moment). The kids actually perked up and wanted to stay when it came out that Rubio was looking for information in relation to a "possible' crime. They looked kinda sad to leave.

The second west wing elevator load was two businessmen down from New York. Heard nothing, saw nothing, worth nothing. Excused from detention.

"Appears Mr. Rubio's theory was correct," Gibbs murmured. "Shooter took the elevator to another floor, switched cars."

I didn't say anything. I knew how long it had taken between the sound of the shot and Rubio getting back to me to say they had the hotel on lockdown. Too long. I was honestly and justifiably worried the shooter had gotten out of the building and was halfway to Ohio.

The next elevator had only one occupant, a slightly over-made up almost middle-aged young woman who looked familiar. She was in Penthouse South; "No I heard nothing… the soundproofing in Millennium is _excellent_." She giggled and poofed her lips and I suddenly recognized her from the covers of a zillion magazines so many years ago: Magda, the former high fashion model whose new reality show was a cross between _America's Next Top Model_ and _Project Runway _and a poor copy of both. She got more publicity by bouncing in and out of rehab and getting arrested. Just like—Fran's father. I shuddered slightly. (Though at least he has blockbuster films between stints.) Some people need better pastimes. Of course, if she can afford a hotel like the Millennium, not to mention one of the penthouse suites, she must be doing _something_ right.

"No, no, I was here to visit my family." That's right, she was a local girl, Magda was just a name dreamed up by her manager back in the 70s. She was one of those girls who grew up way too fast, posing in grownup clothes and makeup when she was only eleven. (No, I'm not a stalker. Not even a follower. Half my staff is under 30; if it's on MTV, I know more about it than I ever wanted to.) "And to have lunch with a friend." Wow. She still has friends. Color me impressed.

But she wasn't a suspect. She probably couldn't concentrate long enough to shoot someone (let alone aim straight; her eyes were a trifle unfocused (so much for her latest waltz through rehab)). Rubio thanked her for her assistance, made an appropriately complimentary comment about her show and she went on her way.

"Security does not show anyone even remotely resembling the woman on our BOLO leaving the building." I jumped at least a foot; Ziva has quiet, sneaky entrances and exits down pat.

Gibbs nodded. "Course she could just be holed up in one of the rooms," he said casually. He and Ziva moved toward the second door on our side of the room.

Rubio winced faintly. I'm sure the idea of doing a room-by-room search of the idle rich and sometimes famous was on the top of his list. Not.

Next elevator load was a good-sized crowd—eight people, all strangers to one another, all pissed as hell about the delay. Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief… Maybe not quite that disparate, but close. Nobody heard anything or saw anything; once they realized the delay was caused by a criminal investigation, the mutterings about 'my lawyer' disappeared. There were a couple of, "Here?" comments in aghast tones (yes, honey, crime happens in nice hotels, too); the PR department was going to have fun with this one.

While the next group of undoubtedly unhappy people was being brought to the room, Mr. Rubio came over to where Ducky and I were standing. "The paramedics have arrived," he said quietly. "Dr. Potter says there's only one wound, messy but not life-threatening." I sagged and almost fell down; Ducky's quick arm about my shoulders stopped me. "Her worst injury is actually from a fall; she apparently struck her head on a table, was unconscious when they arrived. They've brought her around, but she has a severe concussion. They're asking that you stay downstairs; it's rather crowded already."

I nodded, quick little jerks. "Fine, fine, I'm good staying here—I'm just glad she's okay. As okay as she can be." Translation, _I'm just glad she's not dead._

"If you'd like to go with her to the hospital—"

"Yes!"

"—I'm sure that can be arranged."

Our new group was a twosome. The older woman was about my age, her upswept and carefully arranged hair a gorgeous platinum that immediately reminded me of Maxine. I sighed; damn, I was sorry she had left us. Ducky would have loved to reconnect, I had wanted to meet her—and I'm pretty sure Fran would have rather had her than her inheritance. I thought the younger woman was her daughter but the way she strode toward Mr. Rubio, fall of auburn hair swinging in classic Jan Brady mode, made me reconsider. "What the _hell_ is going on here? I de_mand_ to see the manager!"

"I'm very sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am," Rubio said smoothly. A glance our way; a tiny head-shake from Ducky. "There was an incident in one of the rooms, a guest was… injured…"

"So because some asshole falls in the tub, you shut down all of the elevators? Overkill, ya think?"

"I'm sorry to say, it was a shooting—"

"Shooting? What the hell kind of place _is_ this?"

"I assure you, Miss—"

"Timmons."

"Miss Timmons, this is quite out of the ordinary. It appears someone came here with the sole purpose of hunting down this guest."

She knocked it back a peg or two. "So it was like—an assassination? Some political hotshot?"

"I can't say. But were you near Penthouse West?" She shook her head. "Where…?" He looked at her expressively.

"I'm—I'm in 610. South. I'm here for the ASTA conference. There's four of us, my friends are already gone, we—we were going to hit some of the sights before things get started with the meetings and crap and I forgot my cell phone—someone really got shot?" Rubio nodded. The wind fell out of her sails. "Oh, my god."

Gibbs was watching the exchange, face impassive. He 'casually' glanced around the room—one of Rubio's staff was across the room, at the door parallel to Ducky and me; at the other door, across from Gibbs and Ziva, the second security member stood with the other occupant of the elevator, who stared away from us (possibly bored; possibly not wanting to be associated with something so sordid); then a look at the DC cop, Rubio and the younger guest, then Ducky and me almost in the corner… He stared at us for a moment, as though he had forgotten we were there, then leaned over and whispered something to Ziva. An eyebrow flicked up slightly and she nodded. She tapped at her PDA.

"—in contact." I blinked; I had missed Rubio giving farewell permission to the travel agent. (My niece, Sharon, works part time at a travel agency. I know what ASTA means.)

Gibbs was watching the second woman as she was escorted over to the middle of the room where Mr. Rubio had been speaking to people in turn. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't notice; you wouldn't even think he was paying attention. But I've known him well enough over the past year that I can tell the difference between him not paying attention and the front of letting people _think_ he's not paying attention. This was definitely the latter.

"Is it—can I sit down? For a sec?" The travel agent was looking a little shaky on her pins.

"Of course." Rubio escorted her to one of the round tables to the side and settled her in a chair. "Would you like some water?"

"No, no, I'm good. Thanks."

Good, my ass. She looked as white as I felt. The second woman from the elevator was waiting with the look only the idle rich can achieve: bored élan with a dash of hoity-toity in the background. _Probably some Senator's mistress,_ I thought evilly. She looked around briefly, her glance barley moving over us. I frowned; there was something just a _hair_ familiar about her. Kind of like Maxine… only not as engaging, I finally decided.

A little color back in her cheeks, the travel agent gave a game smile and stood up. "I think I'm going to let my friends go on without me. Is the bar open yet?" With a small smile of understanding, Rubio nodded and escorted her to the door. The second guest was ushered to the front center of the room.

Rubio come back and joined the remaining guest. "I'm sorry," he said with a gracious smile as he came up.

She didn't answer, merely inclined her head slightly, the queen acknowledging a commoner. She was almost eye-to-eye with Rubio, who was no shorty; she was close to six feet tall. Of course, she was cheating; she had on high heels that could be used as deadly weapons. Not a hair out of place, stylishly dressed, impeccable manicure—she probably wouldn't want to even be near a gun, was probably incapable of firing one. (That is a job for the servants, darling.) She was so plastic she gave me the willies. I shivered slightly.

"Are you all right?" Ducky asked softly.

His voice was barely audible. "Yeah," I murmured absently. "Just… hinky."

He gave me a questioning glance but didn't pursue the conversation.

"—the hotel?" I had missed Rubio's questions to that point.

"No." The woman's voice was pleasant, if cool. "A friend—former colleague—is in town, we're going out for an afternoon of 'retail therapy.'" She waived her hand graciously.

"And the friend?" Rubio continued. He's a little more approachable than Gibbs, but both of them have a talent for lulling you into a sense of security and using anything that falls out of your mouth to their advantage.

Ducky started slightly at the woman's comment; distracted, I missed Ms. Irritatingly Familiar's reply. He casually turned aside, pulled out his cell phone and tapped a message. A moment later, from the corner of my eye, I saw Ziva flick her eyes toward Ducky and tap keys on her PDA. She leaned over and showed the screen to Gibbs.

"So you heard nothing, Miss Stanachovnia?"

"No, nothing," she said, still calm and collected.

"It's an interesting coincidence…"

All eyes turned to Gibbs at his laconic comment.

"Coincidence?" Rubio repeated.

"Mmmh. Yes. Miss Stan-a-chov-ni-a… was staying at…" He checked his notes. "The Park Regency. Her car was stolen and found, abandoned. Here." He was talking as he punched keys on his PDA. (Rumor has it that when McGee got Gibbs up and running (and competent) on his new equipment, he went out and got stinking drunk.)

"How interesting." Rubio looked rather like Gibbs at that moment.

"We thought so." Message sent, Gibbs looked up, his face deceptively bland. "The stolen vehicle was used in an attack on our Medical Examiner, Dr. Mallard." He jerked his head in our direction. Ms. Typical Hitchcock Blonde didn't even glance over.

"Good heavens," Rubio said in shocked tones. Good actor, that man; anybody would think he didn't know all the grisly details.

"Yes," Gibbs said calmly. "A dear family friend was shot." I could hear Ducky's voice in his words. Apparently Gibbs' PDA vibrated; he glanced at the screen and gave a tiny, very satisfied smile. A glance toward Ducky, a flick of an eyebrow; a slowly indrawn breath from my beloved.

"And the young woman who was shot today—someone ransacked her room yesterday," Rubio continued.

"How dreadful," the woman said. She sounded almost bored; I doubted her sincerity.

To my surprise, Ducky walked over toward her. I was curious, but stayed back.

"What a lovely ring," Ducky said politely. She gave him only the briefest acknowledgement. "Have you been married long?"

No answer, but the slight stiffening of her shoulders made me think, "too long."

"It's an interesting thing… if you wear a piece of jewelry long enough, it becomes such a part of you, you don't even realize you have it on," Ducky said musingly. I saw Ziva's hand slip up to her throat, fingering the gold Star of David I never saw her without. "Women, in particular, with regard to their engagement and wedding rings…"

Ziva took the cue and began reading information from her PDA. "Two rings. Wedding set. Either white gold or platinum. Engagement ring, center stone a diamond, pear-shaped, three to four carats; side stones of sapphires, also pear-shaped, wedding band a circlet of alternating diamond and sapphire chips—" She glanced up at Miss Stanachovnia, who was now standing stiffly, looking off to her right—after having shot Ziva an uncomfortable look for a split second. "As worn by the suspect in the shooting of Lillian McAllister. You have an excellent eye, Dr. Mallard," she said formally.

Not a word. Not a noise. Ducky stared at the woman. She just stood there, silent, unmoving, like a statue of a Greek goddess. "Why?" he finally asked.

No answer. She wouldn't even look at him.

"Our forensics specialist just compared notes with Metro PD." Gibbs waggled his PDA. "Prints from the car you rented match several taken from the hotel room that was ransacked. Another… coincidence?"

"Why?" Ducky repeated, more loudly. He took a step forward. "Who—who are you to Francesca that you almost killed two women—"

A split second flash of emotion. Fear. Hatred. Anger. Then the mask went back up.

"Ahhh," he breathed softly. "You didn't realize… you weren't successful." He gave her a grim smile. "Perhaps you panicked? Ran off? But, no—Francesca is still alive."

She looked nervous, twitchy, for just a moment. Then the ice queen was back. The perfect, glacial blonde Hitchcock had used in so many films. Ingrid Bergman. Grace Kelly. Kim Novak. Tippi Hedren.

I literally took a step back. Valerie was a _huge_ fan of Magda's crappy MTV show. She said it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Earlier in the year, when we had spent one long night cleaning all of the carpets, I had let her watch/listen to the marathon of the full twelve episodes of the fall mini-season as we worked (_anything_ to get an extra pair of hands for the night); each episode had a sort-of-name/sort-of-has-been guest, all from modeling or fashion, and the premier episode had been a chum from years back—

"Alyce! Over here!" I yelled.

Everyone looked startled. Rubio raised his eyebrows, Gibbs flat-out stared, Ducky jumped a little and even Ziva looked surprised. But I got the reaction I wanted. Miss Stanachovnia's head whipped around, a practiced smile on her face, trained like a Pavlovian dog to listen for the paparazzi to call her name and respond graciously to the bell. The cold, distant mask dropped; the professional mask—the plastic smile engaging the public—went up. Betrayed by decades of photo ops, she blinked, stunned, the mask slipping; then it fell all the way and she glared at me with all the animal hatred human DNA can muster.

Oh, yeah. She was _very_ capable of firing a gun. Fortunately, with poor aim.

"Alyce?" Gibbs questioned.

As I walked toward them, I could see Ducky nodding to himself. _Now I know who you are_, I could almost hear aloud. "Alyce Novak," I said. She was still giving me a nasty look. "Born Allison Stanachovnia. Alyce Novak was her catwalk name."

Gibbs looked only slightly puzzled. Ziva translated for him. "Miss Stanachovnia—Miss Novak—was a model." He nodded in comprehension.

"But she has a third name. Mrs.—"

"Mrs. Cameron Carson," Ducky finished.

Gibbs frowned. "The actor?" (Tony should give him a gold star.) Ducky nodded. "Just out of curiosity… why the hell were you trying to kill Fran Peterson?"

That was the cue for the lone cop to speak quietly into the mic on his shirt and come over to join us. "Ma'am—I need to advise you of your rights—"

Alyce was starting to breathe hard. "That—stupid—slut!" she spat.

My mouth actually fell open. Fran? A-a—_slut_? Oh, please!

"If you answer questions at this time—"

"I have been married for thirty years. Thirty years!"

"—it is strictly voluntary. You are—"

"When I first met him, Cam was the original party animal. Alcohol, drugs, women—"

"—not under arrest—"

"We got together and he had been sleeping with that little tramp, _Mary_—" She sneered when she said the name. I could feel the tension radiating from Ducky; he wanted to slap her silly.

"—free to leave at any time—"

She whirled on the cop. "Will you shut up!" she snapped. He looked taken aback.

"Was the money _that_ important?"

She gave me a confused look. "What?"

"Fran's grandmother. Maxine Arthur. She left her estate to Fran, isn't that…?" I trailed off.

She shook her head slowly, staring at the floor. "Money." She laughed softly, disdainfully. "_Money_." Another headshake. "Why would I care about the money?" (Guess she's never tried to make Top Ramen stretch for three meals like some of us.) "I… love… my husband." She said it with such intensity I didn't doubt her for an instant. "Cam is—_was_—a bit of a screw up. I knew that from the beginning. But… I love him. And I know he has some… _damage_… from the alcohol. And the drugs."

Damage. As in no longer functional brain cells, I bet.

"But he's funny. And kind. And talented. And good-hearted—"

_And rich_, I added mentally. "And a louse," is what I said. Alyce glared at me. "Hey. What else would you call a guy who sleeps with two women at one time, gets one of them pregnant and walks off with the second one? And if Mary Carpenter was a tramp for sleeping with him, what does that make you?" I asked sweetly. "Did you encourage him to turn his back on his daughter?"

Gibbs shot me a look and I held my breath, waiting for him to boot my butt out the door. Quite the opposite; his tiny nod apparently meant for me to keep going.

She ignored my dig at her hypocrisy. "He never knew!" She was defending him, yes, but she was also clearly pissed. "Even his mother, that stupid cow, _she_ never told him!"

I briefly considered grabbing a tablecloth from one of the round tables and lassoing Ducky before he tackled her.

"When she died, her lawyer sent a copy of the will and wanted to know if Cam knew where the brat ended up. He was—not available. I signed for the letter."

"Not available. Rehab?" Ducky asked flatly.

"He was… at a spiritual retreat."

"Rehab," I confirmed.

She whirled on me. "He has been in constant pain! On _Tempting, My Dear_ he broke his back!" (I remembered that. Someone else even died and the stunt coordinator was charged with Man 2 or Accidental Homicide or something_._) "Three surgeries! And all they'd do after that is throw painkillers at him and when he became addicted they just washed their hands of him!" I actually felt a tiny bit sorry for the guy. "He is _finally_ rid of that monkey on his back and what happens?" She began pacing around like a caged lion whose lunchtime has come and gone. "That idiot John Banes from that stupid band they had comes by for a visit. 'Oh, remember sweet little Mary? Poor little thing is in the nuthouse, I hear.' Well, gee, thanks for that newsflash, John," she said sarcastically. "The therapist at Morgan Bay is _really_ big on making amends for past misdeeds. So after thirty years, Cam starts feeling guilty for dumping her and uses one of his precious day passes _not_ to come home to me, his _wife_, no siree, he goes out to the booby hatch and what does he see? A thousand pictures of a little girl 'with eyes _just like mine_,'" she quoted. She looked stunned. Still pissed, but stunned. And hurt. "And now nothing will do but find her and 'make it right.'"

"And how is that wrong?" Gibbs' voice was cold. Interesting that a man with no kids is very sympathetic to them.

She looked at him with an almost horrified expression. "Do you have _any idea_ what will happen?"

Let's see. You get a stepdaughter who is, frankly, a better person than you deserve. She's going to have a bank account that will choke a horse, but CC has an almost equal bankroll. _Entertainment Tonight_ has a lead story for a week or so; same story, different names, this isn't the first surprise child to turn up in Hollywood. And Cameron probably looks better for it. "What? You don't want to share him?" I said sarcastically. "Please. It's not like we're talking a custody battle, here."

"For thirty years I've stood by Cam through thick and thin. We have a perfect marriage."

_Oh, please. Now I am going to hurl._

"What will people say when this comes out? It will look like he was cheating on me while we were barely just married!"

Every person in the room stared at her, even the two security officers who were trying to look like they hadn't been listening to every word from every person who had been grilled. Some were shocked. Some were did-I-hear-you-right stunned. Others were repulsed. But nobody showed the cold fury Ducky did.

"You mean to tell me… out of the fear of some wagging tongues… _you tried to kill an innocent young woman?_" When he gets pissed off, his Scottish brogue starts coming out. Right now he sounded like he'd just walked off the boat from Glasgow.

"You don't understand—"

"You're damned right I don't understand!" Probably to keep from killing her, he stalked from the room.

The DC cop stepped forward. "Mrs. Cameron Carson—" (probably the only name he could remember from the list) "—I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder—"

She looked at him in confusion. "No."

"—of Francesca Peterson and Lillian McAllister—" He'd been paying attention; good. I didn't want Lily's attack to get pushed aside.

"No!" She tried to step away, but he had her wrists in hand and her arms behind her back in a split second.

"Anything you say—" The clink of the handcuffs locking was sweet music.

"_**No!**_" she raged. She twisted and turned to no avail. Her beautifully sculpted hair was tumbling down and she started to look more like the Alyce I remembered with her trademark fall of silvery hair. But instead of the frozen, aloof ice queen of the runway and red carpet, her face was a mask of hatred and fury. It wasn't what we were accustomed to seeing… but it sure matched the glimpse into her heart that we had all seen.

I stood there, numb, almost detached, as the officer marched her out of the room. She was getting louder and more combative as they went; so much for avoiding bad publicity.

A hand gently touched my arm and I jumped: Rubio. I'd forgotten about him for a moment. "Miss Peterson will be downstairs shortly. Just give us a call when you want to leave the hospital; we'll have a car come and pick you up."

Wow. Talk about service above and beyond. Of course, they would have some very ugly stories in the news, through no fault of their own. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

I left the room and found Ducky standing in the lobby. He was staring out the front window expanse, watching Alyce being gently strong-armed into the back seat of a squad car. She was fighting tooth and nail; they were using minimal force, but that could change if she kept fighting. Frankly, I'd just tase the bitch and get it over with. People in the lobby were staring; several were using their cell phone to photograph what was happening.

_Film at eleven_, I thought maliciously. "Fran is on her way down."

Ducky sighed. "Good." He managed a flicker of a smile. "Looks like she'll be staying longer than she planned, poor dear."

"You're going to tell her all that happened? Or—" (Dear god, please, no.) "—you want me to do it?"

"No. It's my responsibility." He looked absolutely grieved. "If I had just told her everything at the start—"

"—it probably wouldn't have changed anything." He looked at me in surprise. "Face it. Alyce has been wearing her game face for thirty years. Perfect marriage? Oh, get real. She's been acting a part all this time—and, frankly, doing a better job that she ever did when she got screen credit—but she is clearly gaga." Clearly. "Even if you had Fran and CC on a three-way call and it turned into the end of a sappy movie of the week it wouldn't have stopped her."

"Perhaps."

We both saw Fran at the same moment. It was hard to _not_ see her. She was sitting up on a gurney, surrounded by hunky EMTs and cops; they made quite a procession. Some of the cell phone movie producers swung their cameras toward her; I barely resisted the temptation to go over and smack them to the floor and stomp on them. (The phones, not the people. Well, the phones more than the people.)

"Hey, how are you doing?" I said as we hurried up.

"Oh, Sandy. I want to go _home._" She was near tears, and it wasn't from being shot.

"And you will, my dear. Very soon." Ducky said with a comforting hand pat.

"_Now_!"

Ducky glanced at the one person not in uniform, who carried an honest-to-god doctor's bag. He shook his head. "Let's get you checked out, eh?" Ducky said with another calming smile. "As soon as you're allowed to leave, Sandy and I will take you straightaway to the airport."

"And I'm coming with you to the hospital," I added.

She looked slightly mollified. Then her eyes widened. "Oh! We missed lunch!" That was the last straw. She burst into tears.

Ducky laughed in commiseration. (He was probably hungry, too.) "Poor little Pierrette," he sympathized. "I'll bring a full picnic basket from the Gypsy."

With a gasp she stopped crying. "Pierrette," she breathed. "Oh… Mom used to call me that sometimes, I never knew why…"

We kept pace with the gurney. "She used to sing to you, old songs from musicals. Maxine did, too. You loved those songs—_Evita, The King and I, The Boyfriend..._"

She smiled. It was small, but it was a smile. "Oh… yes… _Poor little Pierrette… where's your Pierrot?_" she sang quietly. She has a very pretty voice. "I remember…"

She was in a much better mood when they loaded her in the paramedic unit. There wasn't enough room for me; the EMTs took down my name and promised nobody at the hospital would stop me from being with Fran.

The media had gotten wind of the shooting but arrived after Fran was gone. Of course, with the people coming forth with their cell phone footage, they'd have photos for the new report even if they were one unidentified woman who had been shot by another unidentified woman. They wouldn't stay anonymous for long.

The news vans did a great job of blocking my exit. I was rapidly moving from irritated to pissed to get the hell out of my way or I'll mow you down. When I was ready to grab somebody's sidearm and fire shots overhead, Mr. Rubio sidled up to us. "I had Jon bring your van around back. Come with me through the kitchen." (I'm sending a letter to Mrs. Islington, to the CEO, to whomever I need to and I'm singing his praises like Yma Sumac.)

"I'll leave as soon as I can. And I _will_ bring a hamper," Ducky promised.

My stomach was growling. "Good. I'm about to chew on my own arm. I'll call you when I know anything." I squeezed his hand.

"Please. Do." He's a bit reserved in public, but I could feel the hug and kiss in his eyes.

Any other time I would have slowed down to drool over the kitchen equipment and savor the scents created by people who actually know what the hell they're doing in the kitchen but not today. I barely managed to keep pace with Mr. Rubio (man, can he _move_) and then we were out on the loading dock behind the kitchen. The head chef was methodically going over the delivery of seafood, rejecting an occasional candidate; no wonder the food there is so good, she is a picky lady. My van was sitting at the top of the ramp, idling, the car jockey standing by the open door. "Do you know the way?" Rubio asked.

I looked at him in horror. "Oh, shit! Where are they—"

He laughed. I probably just broke the tension for him. "Doc said they're taking her to Howard University."

I nodded rapidly. They have a Level 1 trauma unit. You say the word gunshot, and you end up at Howard. "I can find my way."

I got lost twice.

The paramedic unit was still there, the driver filling out paperwork. Good. At least _they_ didn't get lost.

I hurried in the ER entrance and made a beeline for the front desk. "Fran Peterson?"

"And what is your problem, Miss Peterson?"

"No, no—I'm Cassandra Talmadge. Fran Peterson was just brought in. Gunshot wound?" Just saying the words made me want to throw up. Literally. I popped a peppermint and it settled my stomach—by about 5%. Better than nothing.

She clicked her keyboard. "Are you a relative?"

Honey, the closest thing in this town to a relative just tried to kill her. "Extended family."

"I'm sorry, only—"

"The paramedics took my name down. I'm supposed to be allowed in." I kept my voice even.

"I'm sorry, only—"

"Please. Call." I was using my scary voice, the one Ev calls 'the mom voice.' Very calm. Very level. If you push me, I'll kill you… if you're lucky.

With a sigh, she lifted her phone. "Norma in Triage. Peterson, s-o-n, Francesca. _Visitor_—" she emphasized the word.  
"—named Cassandra—" She broke off. "Oh?" She listened a moment. "Oh. Oh. Okay, thanks." She hung up and pointed to the big double doors at the end of the room. "Down the hall, turn left, first counter." She didn't apologize; I didn't care.

I waited in Fran's room (in actuality, a curtained-off cubicle), thumbing through magazines that were older and duller than the ones I'd read a week ago while waiting for news about Lily. (A plea to the universe: this whole reading old magazines while waiting for news about friends who have been shot is getting old. Especially the 'friends getting shot' part. Thank you for your attention to this matter.) Fortunately, I didn't have long to wait.

The curtain parted, and an orderly wheeled Fran's bed in. She was sitting up, her right arm strapped against her body. Her left foot was moving under the blanket, tapping nervously against an invisible floor. She'd been put in a stylish hospital johnny with tiny blocks of red and blue on a field of beige and **PROPERTY OF HUH** printed all over in big black letters. (Like someone would steal it?)

I let the orderly anchor the bed and leave before coming over to her. I pinched her tapping toe through the blanket and wiggled her foot. "How're you doing?" I was afraid to give her a hug; I didn't know where she was hurt.

"Great… if they'd let me out of here."

"So… where…?" I trailed off.

She used her left hand to point toward her right chest. "They took x-rays already. They said it's a 'through and through' and that's a good thing. It doesn't hurt much." That surprised me. She grinned crookedly. "Because I am totally ripped."

I laughed. "Good. Enjoy it."

The smile faded a bit. "Do they know who—why—?"

Urk. I sighed. "Yeah. They do. But—Ducky would rather tell you."

She grudgingly accepted that. "Okay…" She sighed. "I just want to go _home_…"

"That's not going to happen." The young man whipping through the curtain gave us a perky smile. "Dr. Webber," he said, holding out a hand. "Oops!" He moved so that Fran could use her left hand to shake. He gave me a polite look.

"Cassandra Talmadge, family friend," I quickly supplied. This guy looked like he had just started shaving. Maybe. It was like looking at Doogie Howser. He couldn't be _that_ young—could he? (Maybe it was just that I was becoming that _old_.)

"Please, may she stay?" Fran pleaded.

He shrugged. "Fine by me." He pulled a rolling chair over and straddled it. "You are a _very_ lucky young lady."

"Sez you." Fran giggled and covered her mouth. "Sorry."

Dr. Webber laughed. "Morphine is fun, eh?" She giggled again. "Don't sign any business contracts for the rest of the day," he advised. "Okay. The shot was nice and clean. We're looking at minimal surgery, mostly picking out bits of bone and checking bleeders."

"Ewww."

"Not as bad as it sounds. You have two broken ribs, a nick on the scapula and a nice break on the clavicle. The last appears to have been from your fall—when you knocked your noggin." He tapped his head. "You're going to need to keep your right arm immobilized for about 6 weeks—"

"But I'm right handed!"

"Next time, tell them to shoot on the left side." Ha-ha-ha. A regular comedian. "We're going to keep you under observation for 24 hours—"

"But—but my plane leaves—"

"Without you. You're not going anywhere for 24 hours. And not on a plane, for sure. You were unconscious when they found you. You've had a nasty concussion. I don't recommend air travel for at least a week."

Fran's brow furrowed and her lower lip actually trembled. "But—"

"Amtrak," I suggested. "It's a four day trip or so. Or you can stay with us for a week and then fly home."

She sighed. "It's not that I don't enjoy your company, but—"

"Cal," I mouthed. She blushed a pretty pink. "So. Any food restrictions today?"

"Probably not. We plan to just use a local—like I said, we're not talking major surgery, here. If we need to go with a general, no food except what we provide. But it probably won't be necessary. I wouldn't recommend anything heavy or spicy, but she should be good by four o'clock or so."

"I'm going to die of starvation before then," Fran vowed.

"Ducky is going to pick up stuff from the Hippy Gypsy," I reminded her. I was starving, too.

Dr. Webber looked up. "Ducky? You don't mean Ducky Mallard, do you?"

"Yes…" I said hesitantly.

"Sweet! I've known him since I was a kid!" (What do you mean _since_ you were a kid?) "He's the reason I went to medical school!" I stared at him, shocked. "Tell him you met up with Angela Webber's son."

"Uh—okay."

"Mom worked in Legal. I met Ducky at the Family Day picnic, wow, eighteen years ago. Hung out with him and his mom most of the day. She's a cool lady."

I couldn't help it. I started to giggle. Hard. "Everyone," I managed to get out. "_Everyone_." I laughed myself into tears. "Sorry. It's just that _everyone_ knows Ducky!"

"And everyone _likes_ Ducky," Dr. Webber added with a firm look.

Fran sighed. "If you're going to say nice things like that… I'll have to go along with your medical demands."

"Good." He stood up and patted her leg. "We'll have her up in just a bit, she should be out by three, three-thirty."

I held up my phone. "Is this one of the areas—"

"Lobby's okay." He looked at Fran's chart. "And… you'll be in room 1104B, if you want to wait for her," he said looking first at Fran and then at me.

"Thanks."

I waited with her until a different orderly came to whisk her away; it really was just a few minutes. Promising that I'd be waiting upstairs for her, I hurried to the lobby to call Ducky. I gave him a quick rundown, tossing the medical terms around like I knew what I was talking about. I wasn't wrong, apparently, because he didn't correct me or burst out laughing. He sounded relieved at the diagnosis and treatment, and was all for keeping Fran here for a week and letting her fly home. (Yeah, like _that_ was going to happen.) He promised to leave early and pick up late lunch for us—and let Suzy know we might be late getting home.

A quick trip through the gift store for a book (I was NOT going to go through round three of five year old People magazines) and I parked myself in the vinyl covered chair near the window in Fran's room. Two beds; no roomie. Fran was upstairs at 3:02. Her eyes were red; she had toughed it out with just a local, but it hadn't been pleasant. (She admitted that the threat of losing Hippy Gypsy to hospital food if they used a general anesthetic kept her going.) "You don't look too bad, kiddo."

"I'm not _that_ young," she grumbled, trying to get comfortable while using only one hand to shift herself around.

"You are to me," I retorted. "I'm old enough to be your _mu_-thah."

She looked slightly blank. "Um, okay."

When she didn't laugh, I suddenly remembered her newness to our group and realized I had to explain. "Okay. Years ago, I had a summer employee who was from _Bahs_-ton. You know—_pahk_ the _cah_?" She nodded. "Well, Tina had a mouth on her that made me look like an elderly nun." Puzzled look. "Um… Ducky often winces at my language."

"Ah."

"Tina's favorite phrase, which she used as casually as most people would say 'please' or 'thank you' or 'the' or 'of' was—" I had to steel myself. I don't think I've said it five times in my life. "Mother-fucker."

She wrinkled her nose. "I've never liked that."

"Me, either. But she would say it with this strong _Bahs_-ton accent with the ac-_cent_ on the first syl-_lah_-ble," I emphasized. "So it ended up, '_Mu_-thah _fuck-_ah,' and it became absolutely hysterical after a while. 'Tina, would you open that shipment?' '_Mu_-thah _fuck_-ah, _that's_ a _lot_-ta _books_!' Quite rhythmic. 'Tina, we're ordering pizza for lunch.' '_Mu_-thah _fuck_-ah, _cool_!' She was working at the shop on 9/11, you can _imagine_ the workout that phrase got."

"Don't make me laugh!" Fran begged, trying not to.

"Sorry." I spread my hands. "Most of my stories are funny. Most of my _life_ is funny. It's like a cheesy sitcom without the commercial breaks."

"Even you and Ducky?" she teased. "So. You never gave me the whole story. You don't work together—how did you meet? He just walked into the store and—bam?"

Oh, what the hell. It would keep her occupied. Besides—she's adopted family from his side. "Okay." I dragged the armchair closer to her bed and climbed back on and crossed my legs. "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a young woman who made some spectacularly bad choices in men. In my defense, I've made some _good_ choices, too—but my bad choices were really, _really_ bad." I rattled off a two or three paragraph buildup to my romance with David Sutton. She was hanging on every word, so I gave the 'happening' about ten pages of monologue. She was amused, horrified, fascinated and aghast by turns. She laughed like crazy over my first meeting with Victoria ("I never have asked her what she meant about my knickers and I never _will_ ask.") and was absolutely dewy-eyed over our Grand Romance.

"You guys are so sweet together. I have to admit—I'm still a little sad that Ducky's not my birth father, just because he's so… nice. But I'm glad that he considers me extended family." She picked at the fabric pills on her blanket. "Do you think he'll ever break down and tell me? Who my father is, I mean?"

This wasn't the same as _telling_ her the name… "Yes. He will."

She looked up, surprised. "He will? When?"

"_That_ I don't know." Though I could make a safe bet that it would be this afternoon.

She looked at me shrewdly. "You know who he is."

I sighed. "I figured it out. But Ducky wants to be the one to tell you. And he will."

She nodded. "Fair enough."

"So. Your turn. Tell me about Cal."

She blushed. "There's not much to tell."

"Horse pucky. I'm not going to rat you out to your mom and dad."

She gasped. "Oh! I need to call my dad! He was going to pick me up at LAX!"

The room phone would only allow outgoing local calls. I checked with the ward nurse; it was okay to use cell phones in the room, so I loaned her mine.

Voice mail. "Hi, Dad. It's Fran. I'm okay, don't panic, but I'm in Howard University Hospital, room 1104B. 202-555-2700," she read off the phone. "Call me back, I'll tell you everything. But I'm okay, really, I'm okay. But I won't be flying out tonight. Call me back. Love you lots. Hug Mom," she said, almost as an afterthought. She handed the phone back. "Thanks. I wish I could tell him who and why, not just what."

"You will," I promised.

"You know!" She pounced on it. "Tell me, please!"

"It… has to do with your father," I hedged. "It's better if Ducky tells you. All of it."

"Oh, man…" She sighed and fell back on the pillows. "This doesn't happen in real life. This is the crap that happens in a bad movie of the week."

"Yeah, but you need to add an incurable disease." As if on cue, the tweaked muscle in my stomach twisted—hard. I tried not to hunch over and sucked air through my teeth.

"Are you okay?" Fran's eyes were wide.

"Pulled muscle," I said through gritted teeth.

"Looks more like appendicitis from over here."

"Nah. Parted company back in high school. Ruined Christmas vacation, too. I just moved a shitload of boxes a couple of weeks ago and still paying the price." I concentrated on breathing through the spasm. I was adapting to this being a constant in my life; great.

"Two weeks? You'd better see a doctor."

"That's Ducky's chant, too. I will, I will. Next week." It was starting to ease up. "So. Cal. All the dope. Now."

"Well…" She ducked her head and smiled. You could tell she wanted to have a girl-chat and didn't have many opportunities. "I've known him since I started at Sing." The blush started to creep back. "He's a master model maker as well as one of the best specialty makeup men in the business. He learned it from his dad who learned it from John Chambers—you know, the guy who did the original _Planet of the Apes_ movies? He's a—a hands-on guy—" Deeper blush. (Hands-on. Snicker.) "He's the owner of the company. He doesn't do CAD—computer aided design," she translated. "But he's hired some of the best in the business. He's thirty-seven… a little taller than I am… dark blonde hair, kinda long, these gorgeous green eyes…" She was getting giggly.

"How long have you been dating?"

She looked like she was going to object and gave up. "Um… five years." Fire engine red, now.

"So. You're _dating_… not just _dating_." No answer. "I told you, I won't spill the beans."

"We've been dating for five years." She barely suppressed a smile. "We've been… _dating_… for two."

"And Daddy figures you're going to wear white on your wedding day?" Shy smile and half-nod. "Hey. Liz Taylor wore white for every wedding. Hello?"

She laughed and looked up at the knock at the door. "Ducky!" she cried in delight when it opened.

"Oh, my dear, dear girl! I'm so glad to see you so chipper!" He placed the hamper—an actual wicker basket that Gypsy loans out—on the dresser, hurried over and gave Fran a peck on the cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, it wasn't fun being awake during the poke-and-prod, but I didn't want to risk losing out on lunch."

"Especially not after losing out on going _out_ for lunch," I added. "Hint, hint."

"Hint taken." He broke open the basket. "We have… curried tuna salad on walnut bread… roast beef and jack cheese on sourdough—the bread has bits of sun dried tomatoes and rosemary, a wonderful combination… Mandarin orange chicken salad that's just delicious…" He laughed when she made a little "ooh!" and perked up like Underfoot lighting on a bird on the patio. "It's yours," he said gallantly. "Dear?"

"I'm good with tuna." I know the beef-n-cheese is his favorite, and their tuna is mine.

He handed out plates and utensils and food, and used the rolling bed tray to put out containers of fruit salad, cucumber salad, potato salad, cole slaw and Maui onion hummus and a huge bag of veggie chips. (He knows my weaknesses and regularly gives in to them. What a sweetie.) Like everything else they make, the side dishes were homemade (even the veggie chips). Jugs of iced tea and lemonade completed the meal.

"Did you get dessert?"

He looked at me over the top of his glasses. "Wait and see."

We munched and sipped, chattering about everything under the sun. Well, everything except the big topic at hand. Ducky got a kick over Dr. Webber ("Little Ricky Webber!") being Fran's doctor and agreed that Fran should avoid air travel for a while. "Don't look at it as punishment. Look at a train trip as an adventure."

"I just don't like taking so long."

He cocked his head. "I'm sure Cal would rather you take a little longer and arrive safe and well."

She turned redder than she ever had before and became _very_ interesting in the empty salad bowl. Yeah, that's my Ducky. Knows all, sees all, tells some.

And he did bring dessert, three slabs of four-layer carrot cake. "Walnuts, pineapple, raisins—and two pounds of carrots in a batch. It's at least marginally good for you, if you ignore the cream cheese frosting."

"I hated carrot cake until I ate theirs," I confirmed.

Fran took a tentative bite. "Oh, that's good," she confirmed. "_Really_ good."

"Next time, we shall eat at the restaurant. The ambiance is quite charming."

"Well, it looks like I'm stuck here for at least a day," she sighed. "At least there's something to look forward to."

The phone made a soft _b-r-r-r-p_. Fran hesitantly lifted the receiver. "Hello?" She brightened a bit. "Dad, hi!"

Ducky caught her eye. "We'll give you some privacy," he said softly, rising.

"Dad, hang on—" She covered the receiver. "No, no, please stay. It will keep us from having to repeat things." She went back to the phone. "Dad? Hang on, this is a speaker phone—" She fumbled with the buttons.

"—damn speaker phones, I hate them—"

"Dad, you're on broadcast," she teased.

"Oh. Sorry."

Mr. Peterson had a deep, rumbly voice. It fit his picture to a 't.' "Dad, I have a couple of friends here. Sandy Talmadge—"

"Hi!" I chirped.

"And Dr. Donald Mallard. Most everyone calls him Ducky."

There had been a small gasp at Ducky's name. "Oh. Hello," he said cautiously.

"I know the truth, Dad," she said gently. "Well, part of it, anyway."

"That can come later. _Why are you in the hospital?_"

Fran looked at us and bit her lip. "Mr. Peterson, this is Dr. Mallard. Francesca—was shot."

Stunned silence. "What?"

"She was shot. Earlier today. By Alyce Carson."

Mr. Peterson's, "Oh, Christ," had a healthy dose of guilt in it. _If I had only told her the truth…_

Fran looked at me, baffled. "Why would—"

I held a finger to my lips. "It will come," I whispered. We both turned to look at Ducky.

"I think the time has come for the whole story to come out," he said gently.

A heavy sigh from the speaker. "I think you're right, Dr. Mallard."

..… It was a _long_ hour. …..

At the end of it all, Fran looked like she'd been run over by a truck. It was a lot to take in.

"I'm sorry, Baby," Mr. Peterson said, over and over. And he did sound genuinely grieved. "Your mother thought she was doing the right thing, that she was protecting you."

"Yeah…" Fran looked so forlorn. She was struggling not to cry.

Even Hardhearted Hannah has _some_ maternal feelings. I climbed onto the bed and put a careful arm around her. She leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder. She didn't make a sound, but big tears dripped onto my shirt.

"Why didn't Maxine—my grandmother—"

"Your mother wanted your life to be as quiet and normal as possible. Maxine was willing to keep the secret. Mary loved Maxie like crazy. And vice versa. Maxie was sure he knew—turns out, I guess, he didn't. For her it was the last straw, she wouldn't even say his name after he moved out. But your mom kept Max in her life very willingly. Maxine had a stroke, not long before your mother…" He sighed. "I used to wonder if that didn't have something to do with it."

Ducky and I exchanged a glance. So there _had_ been an emotional trauma as the catalyst for Mary's withdrawal. Nobody knew where to look.

"It look Maxine a real long time to recover. By the time she had her memories sort of in order, able to walk and talk… you were a grownup," he said simply.

"And now she's gone." Fran's voice was barely audible, even to me.

"Baby… once it hits the news about Alyce, you—it's all coming out, I'm sure." Fran shrugged and made a small noise of pain. "You okay? You—"

"I just moved wrong. I'm okay."

"No! You're not! You're not 'okay!' You've been shot, if I had—" He broke off with a small sob.

"Woulda, coulda, shoulda," I sighed.

"I never thought—"

"Why would anyone think what _did_ happen _would_ happen?" Ducky asked reasonably.

"I was so sure that Mary was right…"

"Parents do what they think is best. Last I heard, they don't issue a step by step guide," Ducky said.

That got a small laugh. "That's for damn sure."

"Dad, how's—how's Mom?" Fran asked hesitantly, sitting up and wiping at her eyes with the neckline of her hospital gown.

A long moment of silence and a small sigh. "The same. Ever since Carson and—" He broke off. "Oh, my god."

"Alyce was undoubtedly the other visitor." Ducky had clearly reached the same conclusion earlier. "She wore a dark wig here; why not a red one when visiting Mary?"

Fran was trembling with fury. "What did she do? What did she say?" She was breathing hard and fast, her unfettered left hand clenching and unclenching.

Ducky reached over and placed a gentle hand on her arm, silently willing her to calm down.

"Oh, Pix…" Fran gave a small smile at what was probably a childhood nickname. "I know she won't respond, not the way we wish she would—but the way she's protecting those pictures of you, maybe on _some_ level she'll hear you?"

"Yes. Please, Dad, yes, could you call me from—"

"I'm already there. Here, I mean. That's why I didn't hear when you called. I was upstairs with your mom. I'm out in the back garden, wait—" We heard a couple of minutes of background noise, rusting and scuffling, warbles of voices moving in and out of range, then:

"Marielle…" There was a gentleness in his voice that brought tears to my eyes. "Marielle, I have a great surprise. Fran called, she's on the phone, she's in—"

_**DON'T!**_ I almost screamed.

"Washington, Washington, D.C. And she met up with an old friend of yours, Donald Mallard—"

It was Ducky's turn for a slightly panicked look.

"—here, I'll hold the phone for you…"

Another bit of rustling, then the sound of soft breathing, tiny almost-gasps as though she had been crying and was trying to stop.

I laid my hand over Fran's; just like yesterday (only yesterday, OMG) she laced our fingers together and held on tightly. "Hey, Mom. I've missed you so much. Have you ever been to Washington? We should all come back in the spring for the cherry blossoms…"

Silence. Just soft breaths.

"I'm here with a couple of friends. Cassandra, Cassandra Talmadge—she owns a bookstore. She's become a really good friend. You'll like her, Mom. And—and Ducky. Donald Mallard. I know why you put his name on my birth certificate, and it's okay, really, it's okay—" She looked from Ducky to me and back; _oh, crap, did I say the wrong thing?_

Silence. Not even the soft, ragged breathing.

Ducky leaned forward. "Hello, Marielle. I do so wish this were in person, not over the miles of telephone wires. I've thought of you often over the years, missed you so very much. I'm so glad Francesca found me. You have quite a wonderful little girl! Well, not so little now. But—"

He broke off. All three of us sat up, looking at one another for confirmation.

_Did you hear something?  
__I thought I did.  
__What did you hear?  
__I'm not sure.  
__I thought it was—_

We heard it again. Just a ghost of a sound, a remnant from years ago from a voice not used in decades, a faint wisp:

"_Pierrette…?"_

Fran gasped. "Mommy?" He eyes were flooded with tears.

A slow, shaky breath over the speaker. "Poor little… Pierrette…" Tiny, quavering notes.

She drifted off into silence. "Where's your Pierrot?" Ducky finished.

We couldn't hear her words clearly. But I knew the lyrics as well as the others: _"Why are you all alone?"_

"Oh, Mommy, I've missed you so much!" Fran was crying, tears pouring down her face like a waterfall. But she was smiling, grinning; happy tears. Very happy tears.

Scrabbling noises. "She's asleep, Pix." You could hear stunned wonder in Mr. Peterson's voice. "She just curled up on the floor like a kitten and went right to sleep. I haven't seen her like this since…" He cleared his throat. "Well, um… I should let you get some rest, Baby. When will you be home?"

"I—I don't know." I reached past her and dragged a box of tissues to her lap. She grabbed a fistful and scrubbed at her face, giving me a grateful look. "The doctor doesn't want me to fly, so I'm taking the train. I can call you when I know the date and time."

"I'll call you in the morning, Baby. Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Dr. Mallard?"

"Ducky," he corrected out of habit.

"Thank you for—for taking care of my little girl." Fran gave a small laugh.

"It was my pleasure. And my honor. As I said to Marielle—" He gave Fran one of his patented make-the-world-better Ducky smiles. "You've reared quite a young lady. You should be very proud of _your daughter_."

Cameron Carson is just a matter of DNA. Dad—Dad was the guy on the phone. "Thank you—Ducky. I think she's pretty okay, too."

"Damned with faint praise." Fran blew her nose.

"Wish you'd reconsider moving out. The house will be empty."

"Maybe… maybe Mom will come back home?"

It was a lot to hope for. But hearing a few words after 20 years of silence was one miracle. Why not hope for two?

"That would be wonderful. I've never stopped hoping."

"Neither have I."

They parted company reluctantly. Fran had a thoughtful, reflective look on her face. "Penny for your thoughts?" I said.

"Show me the penny," she shot back. She was perking up admirably.

I laughed and dug in my pocket. "Here." I put a nickel on the try. "Five thoughts."

"I was just thinking… Alyce was trying to hurt me—"

_Kill you, you mean._

"But—maybe she _helped_ me. Us. Whatever she did or said, she scared Mom so much that she came back from her dark place. A little."

"Hearing your voice, realizing you were safe—it was the push she needed." Ducky sat back in his chair, ankle resting on the opposite knee.

"You, too. You weren't angry with her. I'm sure that has lurked in the back of her mind all these years. Hearing that you forgave her—helped."

"Thank you. I appreciate that thought." After a moment he bestirred himself and began to gather the remnants of our late lunch. "These would make a nice snack later…" He indicated the veggie chips and the hummus and the lemonade; there wasn't a scrap of anything else left.

"You don't want to take it?" she offered politely.

"We aren't going to be held hostage in the hospital. With hospital food," I pointed out.

"In that case…"

"Hang on." I grabbed the empty cole slaw container and ducked into the bathroom. A quick wash in water, a trip to the ice machine down the way and— "Voila. Quick and dirty icebox." I nestled the hummus container into the crushed ice. "That way it won't get funky."

"Thank you. You guys are so sweet." We got clumsy one-armed hugs.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow." I mimed holding a receiver to my ear. "You want me to snag your luggage? Bring you fresh clothes tomorrow?"

"I will love you forever," she said fervently. "_Please._ Yes."

"Will do."

Ducky took my hand in his and the basket in his other and we headed for the door. "I'll walk you to your car, dear." My ever-chivalrous Ducky.

"Hey! When are you two getting married?"

Ducky and I exchanged a glance. "No date yet. But we're going to want you there."

She looked delighted at my words and Ducky's eyes told me I couldn't have said anything more perfect. "I would love to!"

"I expect to see your young man in attendance as well," Ducky said mock-sternly.

Fran managed to not blush for once and even pulled forth a slightly sly smile. "Of course. Maybe it will give him some ideas."

Ducky chuckled and opened the door. "He's a fool if it doesn't."

* * *

-9-


	10. Chapter 10: Other

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Other**

* * *

Ducky was very quiet all the way to the parking lot. I didn't see the Morgan anywhere, but he had noticed where the van was parked (it's kind of hard to miss) and steered us that way. "Will you be coming home? To Reston, that is?"

"Yes." After a day like we'd had, I wanted to sleep in the same bed as my teddy bear—the one who hugged back. "But I want to swing by my place, first. I'm sure Foot is ready to call Child Protective Services on me."

"Don't you mean the Humane Society?" he smiled. Small—but it was a smile.

"Nobody told _him_ he's a cat."

Ducky looked thoughtful. "Well… why don't you bring him with you?"

I stared at him. "Bring Underfoot. With me."

"Yes."

"To Reston."

"Yes."

"To Reston… where there are four _dogs_ waiting."

He shrugged slightly. "The children have to meet some time."

Good point. "We haven't decided where to live."

"Well… until then, it would be easier to move Underfoot to Reston than bring the dogs on weekend visits with me." Another good point. "And Mother would want to go with them."

Oh, yeah, _that_ would go over well. "Well," I echoed. "Let's give it a shot."

_This could get interesting.  
__Define interesting.  
__Oh, God, oh, God, we're all going to die?_

With one of the best bits of movie dialogue ringing in my mind, I pulled out of the parking lot.

/ / /

It was only 7:30 when I got back to Reston. It felt so much later; wonder why? Hah.

"_What_ a _day_," I sighed, lurching through the kitchen door with Foot's carrier banging against my hip.

"I heard." Even rock steady Suzy looked rattled. "How is—" she hesitated.

"Fran," I supplied. "Pretty good, considering. We hope to spring her tomorrow. Be right back."

When I staggered back in with the litter, food, bowls and emergency litter box, Suzy had already released Foot from prison and was cuddling him and listening to his tale of woe. "Oh, I _know_," she crooned while he bitched about the trip. "Poor baaaybeeee…" Foot was eating it up with a spoon. "I do like the dogs," she whispered. "But I'm more of a cat person."

"He can tell." Foot had his front paws draped over her shoulders and was nuzzling her neck.

"Fickle," Ducky taunted, bringing in his mug for a refill of tea. "Hello, dearest." I got a quick kiss in passing. "If you have room from our late lunch, Suzy made a lovely casserole—broccoli, cheese, ham, pasta and a few other items."

"Sounds good—in a couple of hours."

"It will keep," Suzy said.

"There may not be any left," Ducky countered.

"What? No sharing? This marriage is doomed before it gets started."

"If you ask nicely," he said, coming up behind me. "Here. Allow me." He took the heavier items from my hands. "Where to?"

"Basement." I led the parade down the hall, opened the door and flipped the switch. "Watch your step…" I picked my way down the rickety-looking-but-sturdy-as-hell wooden stairs. "Now, I don't want the litter box on the floor—in case the washer floods…"

"Don't say that in its' hearing. That is an _old_ washer."

"Vintage, honey. Vintage." I looked around. "Hmm…" About 3 feet up from the floor there was an odd ledge on the wall that would have been a nice window garden in the morning sun—if there were any windows down there. It was the shape of a window, 4x4 and a foot and a half deep—but where there would have been glass, there was sheetrock. Just the size for Foot's temporary service area—if he approved. (God only knows what the architect intended it to be.)

Aluminum roasting pan filled with litter, bowl of water, bowl of chow, bowl of—

"The good stuff," Ducky said sonorously. Chicken of the Sea.

"Yep. Bribery is a good thing." I set the bowl next to the kibble. "Watch your ears." I stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Fo-_**o-o-o**_-t! Here, kitty! Kittykittykittykittykitty_kitty_!"

"Annnnd the hog calling contest in Reston is officially open…"

"Oh, hush." I waited a minute and tried again. "Fo-_**o-o-o-o-o-o-o**_-t! Here, baby! Dinner, dinner, dinner!"

At that, I got a response. All four Corgis quickly bounded down the stairs, no mean feat when you're as low-slung as they are.

Ducky roared with laughter. "Wrong church!"

"Me and my big mouth, I said the 'd' word."

Foot sauntered up to the doorway and sat on his haunches, staring at us. _Well? You bellowed?_

"Hey, baby kitty," I cooed, ignoring Ducky's, "oh, _ick,_" in the background. "Come on down, baby, I've got t-_**u-u-u-**_na," I singsonged.

He looked at the dogs. _Hmm. Is it worth it?_

"Fancy Feast chow," I wheedled.

"Boy, you _are_ playing," Ducky laughed.

"Too much like a weekend parent?"

"Just a bit. I'm waiting for the offer of a new I-pod and a trip to Disneyworld."

"Oh, _hush_."

Foot sauntered down the stairs as only a creature once worshipped as a god can manage. He sniffed the food and pawed at the litter, then looked from me to Ducky. _This will do—for __now__—but surely you don't expect me to __**sleep**__ down here, do you?_

"Come on, old man. I'll show you around the place." Ducky made a clicking noise with his tongue and headed upstairs. Foot hopped down and trotted after him. Yeah, he loves Daddy best.

The dogs looked at me, stricken. Even Tyson looked unsettled. "Sorry, kids. That's life in the big city. Stepfamilies are the rule of the day. Deal with it."

/ / /

After throwing a load of laundry in the washer (may as well accomplish _something_ down there), I trooped back upstairs. Suzy was in the living room, playing gin rummy with Victoria (and getting royally whupped). The dogs were sitting near the couch, fretting, almost whimpering, _dying_ to tell Mommy all about the mean monster that had invaded their home. I really did feel sorry for them. Here they were, mighty Welsh Corgis, protectors of hearth and home, and this… _feline_… marched in and took over.

Boy, did he.

I could hear Ducky walking around upstairs (I'm one of those people who likes to hear footsteps overhead—comes from growing up in a 2-story house, I guess) when the tenor of the room suddenly changed.

"Oh! What a _handsome_ pussycat!"

Victoria dropped her cards on the table and fumbled to her feet. I tend to be partial to my own cats (what parent doesn't think his or her child the most gifted, most attractive, smartest and best behaved on the planet?), but I have to admit, Underfoot—with his Maine Coon heritage showing in his large frame and long, glossy, mostly tuxedo coat—is a gorgeous fellow. And he knows it.

He stood in the wide doorway to the foyer, looking absolutely regal. _Yes, my adoring public. You may approach._

"Wherever did you come from?" Victoria made her unsteady way across the floor.

"That's Underfoot, Mother," I said. "He's my kitty. Donald and I figured that since we're going to be married, and we'll be in the same house, we'd better get our pets acquainted early on."

She had made her way over to the doorway before I could join her and was saying all sorts of lovey-dovey things to Foot. Isabeau jumped up on the couch and looked pleadingly at Suzy: _make it go away!_

Foot stared up at Victoria, one member of royalty acknowledging the other. Deciding she was on a slightly higher peg than he, he gave a soft 'miau' and leisurely closed the distance between them and began rubbing her ankles, twining in figure eights.

Pets often earn their names. I know one cat named Ninja—so named because you don't know she's there until your ankles are slashed and bleeding. (I wear boots to Dee's house.) Another is named Cop Car—there are bets as to whether it's because he's a black and white cat… or because his siren never shuts off. God, that cat yowls. And talks. (You can tell someone in the family tree was a Siamese. You get pierced ears—the hard way.) Edward E. Puss—Ed E. Puss, say it out loud, you'll get it—is a mama's boy. Clark was short for Clark Kent; he used to launch himself off the roof at birds and you _swore_ you could see a red cape fluttering behind him.

Underfoot? He lives _down_ to his name.

I could see the disaster as it started to unfold, but I was moving in slow motion. Foot rubbed against Victoria's ankles and stood on his hind legs so she could scratch his head. (Maine Coons are big. And long. She didn't have to bend over at all, once he reached up to meet her.) He sat back down, magnificent, fluffy tail spread out for all to admire…

…right in the path of Victoria's cane.

I was almost there. _Almost_. Foot decided he would investigate the rest of the house and rose to his feet. His eyes widened as he realized his tail wasn't coming with him. _WTF…?_ He gave a yowl of dismay.

"Oh! Poor kitty, what is the matter?"

_Your #+&!~% cane, lady, that's what the matter is!_ No subtitles needed.

But there's something in animals—most animals—that alerts them to the presence of a weaker animal. In the wild, that means survival of the fittest and lunch is served. With domesticated animals, it's either lunch is served… or the protection gene kicks in. The Corgis were Victoria's private police force—protect and serve. Foot must have picked up on her frailty, because he froze in place, only the _Mommmmm!_ look a clue to his inner distress. (Either he clued in or figured she was the Alpha in the pack and if he hurt her in any way, he'd be looking in the want ads for a new place to live.)

Just as I got next to her, Victoria moved her cane about six inches away (accidentally whacking Foot on the head as she did). Foot streaked out of the foyer and up the stairs, hitting about Mach 3. "Oh, poor dear, did I frighten him?"

"He's shy," I lied.

There was a faint snort from the couch. "Shy? Try survival mode," Suzy said, _sotto voce_.

"Yeah, well…" I said in a similar tone.

I swear I saw Contessa and Izzy giving each other high fives. All four of the dogs fairly danced out to the kitchen, probably singing a variant of _Ding-Dong, the Witch is Dead_.

But it didn't last long. Within minutes, Foot was back, stalking through the house like a panther on the scent. _My place, now. You stupid mutts better get the message._ He hopped up on the chair, gave a dirty look to the cane, and curled up on Victoria's lap with what can only be described as a triumphant air. (I'm sure the cane struck a memory. He tripped me about four years ago; I broke my ankle, ended up on crutches, and he quickly learned to give them a wide berth.) Victoria is small; Foot… isn't. He kind of overwhelmed her and the chair. She didn't mind. She went back to her gin rummy, saying all sorts of adoring things to the new kid in the house.

Cooper came trotting back into the room… and stopped dead. _Oh, crap. It's back… and it's on Mom's lap._ He stared at the interloper for a full minute; Foot ignored him. Cooper turned on his heel (or canine equivalent) and left the room. Moments later, he returned, the others behind him. (Don't tell me animals can't communicate.) They lined up at the edge of the carpet, staring in horror.

"Oh, look! My darlings have come to meet their new housemate!"

Suzy and I exchange a look; meet. Yeah, right.

Foot gave them a scornful look and began washing his right front paw, claws extended. Big kitty. Big paws. Big claws. The dogs gave each other wary looks; apparently they had run into a cat or two in the past and knew that claws = the one in charge. The real test would come late in the night, when one of the dogs abandoned Victoria's bed to come upstairs and join us. Finding the bed already occupied by the feline member of the family would be a real shocker. (Maybe I would sleep in the spare room…)

"Gin!" Suzy all but bounced up and down on her seat on the couch. "Five hands… to your twenty-eight. You're ahead with seven-ninety-two to…" She did some fast math. "One-oh-three." She gave me a bemused look. "I find it less humiliating to do a daily tally."

"I hear ya."

"Well, I'm simply terrified you're going to quit," Ducky said, coming into the room.

Her eyes widened. "Heavens! Why?"

"You end up cooking dinner half the time, you've had to spend the night, what, three times already? You're constantly asked to stay late at the last moment, you're even coming in tomorrow on your day off—" It was Gibbs' team's turn to take weekend rotation, and Ducky wanted to get caught up on a bunch of paperwork.

She waved him off. "None of that is a hardship, believe me. I would have told you if it were. This is my favorite posting in a long time." She glanced at Victoria, who was ignoring us; she was trying to get a conversation going between Contessa, who had crept up beside her chair, and Foot, who looked down with a _yeah, whaddya want?_ expression. "I adore your mother—and you two are pretty tolerable," she said with a wink toward me.

"Ouch!" I protested. But I was teasing as much as she was.

"I just hope you have the same opinion when Mother has a bad day." Ducky was still worried.

"Huh," she said cheerily. "Next time we'll have tea and I'll tell you some storrrries… carefully edited to retain confidentiality, of course."

"Of course." I was still grinning when she left. "Mother, do you want me to help you get ready for bed?"

She frowned. "Have I talked to Charlotte, yet?"

I glanced at the clock: 8:20. "Probably not."

She looked almost scandalized. "Then I certainly shouldn't be about in my dressing gown." She ran a hand down Foot's back; he reciprocated by rubbing his head on her leg. "Shall Max sleep with me tonight?"

I wasn't going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Fortunately, Ducky did. "Mother," he said patiently, "this is Foot. It's short for Underfoot. This isn't Max."

"No?" She looked at Foot, confused. "He looks just like Max."

"There are similarities, I ad—" He shook his head. "No, Max or Foot or whatever you want to call him—he will be sleeping upstairs with us." He looked at her sternly, ignoring her pleading eyes. "You know the dogs will insist on sleeping with you. If Foot sleeps on your bed and the dogs jump up, it would not be pleasant."

She nodded reluctantly. "Grandfather used to wake my father by throwing the cat on his bed."

For a second I thought, _well, that doesn't make much of a wakeup,_ then remembered the rest of the conversation. "Let me guess. He slept with the dog?"

She beamed at me. "How did you know?"

"Just a feeling."

She started to stir from her chair. Foot, realizing the cane would not be far behind, delicately jumped to the ground (he's very light-footed, despite his size) and slowly strolled from the room, making sure to slap his tail in the face of any dog within reach.

Ducky looked over at me while he turned on the computer. "Perhaps we should rent some armor plating to wear to bed tonight?"

I caught the narrowed eyes of Tyson as he watched the gatecrasher swish his way out of the room. "Not a bad idea…"

/ / /

The _ticka-ticka-ticka_ from the keyboard in the other room was actually kind of soothing. "I never would have thought Mother would take so to using the computer."

I shrugged. "Incentive. She would do anything to keep in touch with Charlie. She'd rather Charlie move in here—but that's not going to happen."

Ducky settled into the corner of the couch and tossed the remote onto the table. "Let's _not_," he said firmly.

"No argument here." I didn't want to hear word one about Alyce or Cameron Carson. If we turned on the boob tube, you know darn well that would be on every channel. I curled up on the couch next to him; at the tug of his hand, I cuddled closer, half on his lap.

"Shelter from the storm," he sighed, arms wrapped around me and snuggling my head to his shoulder.

"Mmmh," I agreed. I closed my eyes and sighed, enjoying the feel of him stroking my hair, the scent and aura that are uniquely Ducky. I'd be happy to sit there forever.

"Here, now…" he said softly. "What's wrong…?"

It wasn't until he reached up and gently thumbed my cheek that I realized there were tears falling from my eyes. "Relief, I guess." I sniffled and swiped the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"It's been a bit overwhelming, I agree." He sighed and held me tighter. "Hopefully this is the end of the tsuris."

"The _what_?"

"Tsuris. Troubles. It's a Yiddish word. Ziva used it the other day and it just has more oomph than _troubles_." He said the last word as flatly as was possible.

"Like chutzpah. It says so much more than 'guts' or 'gall.'"

"Cajones," Ducky offered.

"Balls," I shot back.

"Football? Baseball? Golf ball?"

I began to laugh. "It does not pay to be hip!"

"Pardon?"

"Old song. This guy is trying to be _sooo_ cool. He's hip, the rest of the world is skuh-_ware_. He needs some money, goes to ask his buddy for 'some bread'—and his buddy says, 'sure—you want white bread, whole wheat, pumpernickel—?' And the hipster is saying, 'no, never mind—later' and the friend says, 'four o'clock, five o'clock?' 'No, _later._' 'Thursday? Friday?' 'Forget it.' He goes to another friend, asks if he can spare some pot—'Sure,' the guy says, 'you want aluminum, cast iron, stainless steel—?' 'Cool it.' 'Put it in the refrigerator?' '_Cool_ it.' 'Turn on the air conditioner?' 'Forget it.'"

Ducky watched me, a bemused smile on his face. "What happened next?"

"Oh, my… he met up with this young chick and asked her… if she wanted to ball."

Ducky snorted. "How charming. I'm sure she said yes."

"Actually, she said, 'Football, baseball, volleyball—'" Ducky laughed. "And our hipster says, 'You're putting me on.' 'On the train, on a plane—' 'No, I wanna make it!' 'Make what?' 'A scene!' 'Shakespeare, Clifford Odetts, Arthur Miller—' 'Forget it.' And then _she_ said…" I looked at him meaningfully. "'You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to make love with you.' And the hipster leans back and says, 'Go, baby, go!'"

I paused dramatically until Ducky finally broke down and said, "And…?" in the voice of one waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"And she went," I finished sadly.

"That is _dreadful._"

"Made'ja laugh," I pointed out. "Yell at Shel Silverstein, he wrote it. And be nice, or I'll sing "Barry's Boys" during the next election."

"I consider myself duly warned." My cell phone, buried deep in my pocket, vibrated and Ducky grinned. "That's rather enjoyable."

"I'll let Motorola know their cell phones can double as sex toys." I wriggled around and finally dug out the thrumming phone. It was a number I didn't recognize, a 310 area code. "Hello?" I asked hesitantly.

"Miss Talmadge?" The voice was deep and vaguely familiar.

"Yes…?"

"Alan Peterson."

"Oh, hi! You sound so different off the speaker phone." Delayed reaction; I could feel the blood drain from my face. "Fran—she's okay, she's not—"

Ducky stiffened and looked at me.

"No, no, Fran is fine. I just talked to her."

"Oh, good." Literally dizzy with relief, I sighed and leaned against Ducky. He settled back against the couch.

"No, I just—I wanted to thank you both, everything you've done for Fran… your number was on the caller ID on my phone, I hope I'm not interrupting—"

"No, no, not at all." (A couple of hours later, it might be a different matter—I hoped.)

"Mary is still asleep. It's the most restful I've seen her—well, since I've known her, really. Definitely since she's come here. I know it's a lot to hope…" He trailed off.

"Nothing is too much to hope." I tried not to sound too saccharine.

Ducky held out a hand and whispered, "May I?" I handed the phone over. "Mr. Peterson?" Pause. "Alan, yes. It's Ducky. I just wanted—well, if it's not too inconvenient… could you call or drop me a line, let me know how Mary—" He smiled. "Yes, thank you." He carefully dictated his myriad numbers and email addresses. "I would appreciate that. Thank you. I'll give Cassandra back her telephone."

"Thank you," Alan said as soon as I had the phone back. "I was going to ask for Dr. Mallard's numbers."

"He's a mind reader in his spare time."

"Handy. Like I said… I just want to say thank you for taking care of Fran. I didn't know she had gone back in search of—her father," he stumbled. "I thought it was just for work. And _part_ of it ended well. Dr. Mal— Ducky. And you. But if I could get my hands…" He drew in a shaky breath.

"Yeah," I agreed grimly. "Join the club."

"It sounds like when Pix hit her head, Alyce thought she'd killed her. I should be grateful she didn't shoot her again to make sure."

I shuddered and Ducky gathered me closer. "I have to ask. What does 'Pix' mean?" I _did_ want to know—but more than anything else, I wanted to change the topic.

Alan laughed roundly. "I called her Pixilated when she was little. Pixilated—weird, quirky, odd, but in a good way. It fit. And pixilated was just a fun word. Mary said it was Pixelated—p-i-x-_e_-l-a-t-e-d, like pixels on a computer. She said it was because Fran was the lone spot of color in a black and white world."

I smiled. "That's sweet."

"And she loves pixies. So… Pix she be," he said.

"Well, we'll make sure she gets to the train—or sleeps here if she can't get out of town that fast."

He sighed, a happier noise this time. "I owe you."

"She's part of our extended family. You get to come along for the ride."

"Gladly." His voice lowered. "Mary always had nice things to say about your Ducky." I smiled at 'your Ducky.' "I just knew he wouldn't be cheesed at her. For the birth certificate, I mean."

"Yeah." I twisted so I could tweak Ducky's chin between my thumb and forefinger. "He's a cool guy, my Ducky is."

Ducky's pleased smile was still in place as Alan Peterson and I made our farewells. "'Cool guy?'"

I gave him a long kiss promising delightful things to come. "_Way_ cool."

/ / /

"So. Where do we put my books?"

Ducky looked at me quizzically. "Pardon?"

"Sounds like you've come around to my way of thinking. Where do we put all of my crap?"

Ducky slipped into bed, sitting up against his reading pillow. "Well… there is quite a bit of sense in what you said."

"Shoulda brought a tape recorder up."

He gave me a rakish look. "That could be interesting."

"Come on, come on. You said I was _right_ about something. Spill it."

"Mother has lived in this house for a quarter of her life. There will come a point in time when she is… gone…" he euphemized. "But even if she's just in a facility, I want her to know the house is here. Even if she _can't_ come home, if she has it in her mind, somewhere, that she _could_…"

"I understand…" I don't know which makes me sadder—the idea of her going into a home is as depressing as her dying. I won't want to lose her, period. But I don't get to make that choice. I can only wish for her a gentle passing, in her sleep, surrounded by her beloved dogs. It won't be easy for us—no matter what—but the easier it is for her, well, that's the important part. "I want her here as long as she can be."

"She will be," he reassured me. "Frankly, with you and the girls in the family, she'll be going strong for twenty years."

"Outlive us all."

"Or die in the attempt." He winced. "That didn't come out quite right."

"I got the gist, " I said, chuckling. I hugged him. "I love you. So much."

The kiss he gave me assured me that he feels the same way. "So." He rubbed his cheek against my hair. "When _shall_ we marry?"

"Tomorrow?" I suggested flippantly. "I believe in being spontaneous."

"The state, alas, does not. License, probably blood tests—not to mention the practical parts: where shall we be married? By whom? What sort of ceremony? Flowers? Your wedding gown? I consider myself extremely fortunate that you liked my selection of an engagement ring."

"It's beautiful," I blurted. I was fighting a rising panic. Gown. Flowers. Groomsmen. Bridesmaids. Church? No church? Friends. Relatives. Forgetting someone from the list. Cake. Reception. Visions of _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_ flashed before me. "Can—can we just run away? Elope?" My voice sounded tinny, a zillion miles away.

"Take a deep breath." Ducky's voice, while calming, sounded as far away as mine had. "Let it out… slowly…" I was barely aware of being laid down and pillows being shoved under my feet. "Again. Breathe in…"

The room was sparkling. "Whaaa…?"

"You were seconds away from fainting in my arms, dear." His voice was stronger, clearer—but subdued. "If you ask me for a definition, I'd call that rapid onset panic attack. No, stay back down," he ordered as I tried to sit up. "I'd like to see a color in your face other than off-white."

It sounded like a pretty good idea. "I'm so embarrassed."

"No need to be." He was actually taking my pulse. Not be embarrassed? Please. "Cassandra…?" He set my hand back down, but kept his placed on top of mine. "If you… want things to be, well—as they were… I'd understand."

I looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

"That is—well—if you're having second thoughts…"

I'm slow. But eventually I _do_ catch on. "No," I said firmly. "I am _not_ having second thoughts. Not about marrying you, anyway. Would I have driven all the way from Silver Spring with a screaming cat if I were having second thoughts?" I sat up; this time he didn't stop me.

"I thought, perhaps, that the enormity had hit you…"

"It did. But it didn't change my mind. It just… hit me. All the planning, the preparation… Come on. Most of the time when I throw a party, it's an hour shopping at Costco, people show up starting at five on a Saturday night and I kick everyone out by eleven." Ducky laughed. "Am I wrong?" I challenged.

"Well—you've never kicked _me_ out…"

"You're the exception. No, my dearest—beloved—adorable—Ducky—" I spaced my words out with kisses. "I'm just wishing I could snap my fingers or blink my eyes and wake up married."

"I'll see what we can do," he promised.

"I'll hold you to it," I vowed. I kissed him again, much more firmly. I had plans other than sitting up and reading.

"Mmmh," Ducky purred in encouragement. He's not averse to last minute changes. "Anything else you plan to hold?" he teased.

I gave him a practical application of what else I planned to hold. "Does that meet with your approval?"

"Very much so," he said with a grin.

He had a list of things to hold, too. And touch. And kiss. (So did I.) Good lists. Good night.

/ / /

"Wow. Oh… _wow_…"

Ducky smiled; I could feel the pull of his muscles against my skin, even if I couldn't see his face. "Thank you," he said with a teasing formality.

"No—thank _you_," I shot back. "I'm all sparkly and tingly. Again." (And again.)

"Endorphins."

"That's it. Turn the magic into medical," I grumbled. I toyed with his hair, so soft against my breast.

"Magic, eh?" He twisted around and I sucked in a breath as he kissed his way up, capturing a nipple and suckling gently.

"_Magic,_" I breathed.

/ / / / /

The phone rang at an obscenely early hour. I wanted to smack it into oblivion, but rational thinking (AKA, Ducky) stopped me. "Mallard residence." He sounded far more pleasant than I would have. "Jethro, what—" He broke off and listened. He sat up slowly, bedclothes puddling in his lap. "Yes." Pause. "Yes." He sounded deadly serious. I was deathly scared. More listening. "Thank you, Jethro. I appreciate that." Grim smile. "Good-bye." As he hung up, he said, "It's not as bad as you think."

"Good. I'll cancel that heart attack I just ordered. What—"

He took my fluttering hand and held it in both of his. "Jethro was in early."

5:33 a.m. Does the man frigging _live _at the Navy Yard?

"ZNN was on the plasma screen. They were showing a repeat of last night's entertainment segment."

My heart sank. "Oh, no."

"Oh, _yes_. They didn't mention Francesca by name—but they mentioned Alyce. And Cameron—who is flying out as we speak—"

"I'm going to be _sick._"

"I know, it's—"

"No, I'm really—" I pulled away from him and dashed for the bathroom.

I don't 'do' stress very well. And we've had a shitload the past few weeks. Nausea, chills, headache, insomnia, nightmares, ground teeth and clenched jaw—I had every stress symptom under the sun, and my own fun physical problems on top of it. But as crappy as I felt, I felt worse for Fran. _Poor Pix…_

Ducky didn't hesitate. He sat next to me on the floor, one hand stroking my back, the other wonderfully cool and holding my forehead. I love that he doesn't get rattled by anything medical (not all doctors are calm and collected in a crisis). Gives great massages that he could charge a fortune for… before we ever slept together, asked me about birth control in the most conversational of tones… takes care of me when I'm sick… I like to think I'd be as supportive of him heaving up _his_ socks on a regular basis. (I'll work on it.)

"Poor Ducky." I gratefully took the glass of water he held out and managed a smile. "First time we met I was worshipping the porcelain god." Well—the day after, anyway.

"No… the first time we met… you were standing in the bay window, painting an announcement for a Valentine's Day party. In reverse, no less."

I stared at him, confused. "Hunh?"

"It was—hmm. 1985, I believe." He tipped my chin up and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "You were wearing an exotic outfit—Middle Eastern in flavor—caftan, I think, quite filmy, chiffon or something like that. Chocolate brown, _very_ deep v-neck—" He quirked an eyebrow. "_That_ part, I am sure of. Embroidery and spangles all over. Very feminine, very flattering, very… sexy." He tucked loose hair behind my other ear. "I think that's when I first fell in love with you."

I didn't know if it was truth, half-truth or prime grade bullshit meant to make me feel better. (I vaguely remembered the outfit in question, so it wasn't _total_ bullshit.) "And you waited until I was bombed out of my mind at The Dog to make your move—twenty-two years later—why?"

He ducked his head and batted his eyes. "I was shy."

Truth, half-truth or bullshit? I didn't know. I didn't care. He made me feel better, which was probably his goal. "Glad you finally spoke up."

"Better?" he asked gently.

I rubbed my forehead tiredly. "Yeah, I think so. It was just—Fran, Cameron, Alyce, _ZNN_," I finished in disgust. "I was picturing crowds of those idiots with cameras flooding the hospital, dodging Fran's every step—"

"You're not far off. There was a reporter in front of the hospital last night bemoaning the fact that they couldn't get in or get any information."

"Good," I said sharply, even as my stomach threatened to give us a repeat performance. "Dr. Webber said Fran will be released today, but I can't see them letting her go any earlier than afternoon, he said twenty-four hours, by then they'll know her name and she'll _never_ get out without being mobbed—!"

Ducky gave me a small, sly smile. "Let me work on that."

/ / /

After such and early wakeup and ugly aftermath, we made a sensible choice: we grabbed a quick breakfast and headed out to work. Victoria was sound asleep; Suzy would be there fairly soon (she was quite the early bird), so we left secure in the knowledge that things would run smoothly behind us.

I got to the store hours early. It was nice—a chance to do eyeball inventory, seeing what books had been taken in for trade and shelved without my noticing. (How can you tell what's been added in a store this big? You just _do_. I handle most of the trade credit, so I handle most of the books—literally. But I was sure there had been plenty of incoming books in my numerous absences over the past months, especially from just before Book Expo until now.) (A lot had happened in seven weeks!)

Lots of goodies on all the genre shelves; nothing worth putting online (meaning, nothing with a high value), but plenty of solid stuff worth reading. Big chunk of gardening books; Victoria needed to make a visit. And a mechanic had apparently retired or cleaned house—the shelves in AUTO REPAIR were double stacked on every shelf and we had Chilton's manuals for just about every car manufactured from around 1950 forward. _Cha-ching!_

Someone had also cleared out a lot of kids' books. Everything from picture books to Nancy Drews to some of the YA trash that's come out the past few years. (Yeah, yeah, I know the mantra of the librarians: get them hooked on reading, first; taste can come later. _Twilight_ comes to mind. (I'm sorry—_sparkling_ vampires? That sound was Bram Stoker whirling in his grave.)) A whole bunch of old stuff in there; I grabbed a couple of file boxes and culled out about a hundred books for price research.

As I dumped the treasure trove from the kids' section onto the sort table in Valerie's office the boxes reminded me: today was story day. I've said to all and sundry that I don't really care for kids, and I don't—but I love readers of any age. A reader is a reader is a reader, to misquote Shakespeare. 10:30 would come and we'd get a room full of kids of all ages (and parents who would whip through the aisles, shopping unencumbered as their sprogs listened to the story (interrupting with sometimes bright (sometimes baffling) questions and spilling juice and grinding cookies into our carpet)). I actually _liked_ story time. Even though it was my turn to read, I still liked story time. (I particularly like it when Ducky is in the store and takes a turn with a chapter or two. I would sit and listen to him recite the yellow pages, for Pete's sake.)

By the time I threw open the doors at 9:00, I was happy as a lark. Heaven help the world, I was even singing. (I can carry a tune better than Evelyn; beyond that—well, Julie Andrews, I'm not.) Valerie cruised in only five minutes late; as she bore a box of doughnuts from The Cop Shop, I was willing to forgive her. (Besides—when she officially became my assistant manager, she went salary; it's not like she'd get docked for the five minutes.)

"Oh, _yeah_," I sighed, sinking my teeth into a Seven-Up (glazed twist with lemon filling on one end and lime on the other). "This is _so_ worth the calories."

"How. Is. Fran?" Valerie enunciated carefully around her chocolate cream filled Zeppelin. (She had freaked out over the break-in; the shooting yesterday had left her in stunned silence.)

"Pretty good, all things considered." I gave her a quick rundown: clean shot, through and through, easy surgery. (Bright smile.) Fran stuck in the hospital for at least a day, no plane, gotta take the train home. (Smile faltered a bit.) Fran's 'real' father flying into town and Fran's sort-of stepmother, the shooter. (Smile gone, furrowed brow, tears in her eyes.) ZNN (and half a dozen other stations by now) gearing up to mow her down. ("Like hell they will!" she vowed.)

She wasn't the only person with that thought. Ducky called an hour later. "I just spoke with Ricky Webber."

"Fran!" I gasped.

"She's fine," he quickly assured me. "Abigail's friend, Misty, is visiting Francesca as we speak; Dr. Webber is willing to release her early, _if_ she's released to my care. She'll be ready to leave the hospital about noon."

"I'll pick her up," I immediately offered. "I have her stuff in the van—"

"Oh, you won't need a change of clothing," Ducky said. I could hear a grin in his voice.

"No?"

"And if you cannot find Dr. Webber, let them know you are there to pick up Betty Jo Wainright."

I shook my head. "Come again?"

"Betty Jo Wainright. I… I think I'll let you discover it all on your own." You could almost see the smirk in his voice and I knew his eyes were twinkling.

"Ducky—"

"Bring her straightaway to NCIS. I'll meet you at the guard shack."

"Ducky!" At the guard shack? Usually he just called down a drive-on pass for me.

"You'll understand when you get to the hospital."

"Donald Mallard!" I ignored Val's 'uh-oh' from the stacks. "Tell me what the hell—"

Now he was laughing. "No. I don't know the half of it. Let's just let the play unfold, shall we? I'll see you soon, dearest," he said over my spluttered protests and hung up.

Valerie looked cautiously around the corner of the ANIMALS (PETS AND DOMESTIC) shelf. "Wedding off?" she asked with a pained look.

"Hunh? Why would you think that?"

"The way you yelled, 'Donald Mallard!' I figured either the engagement was off or you were gonna marry him just for the pleasure of divorcing him."

"I did not yell!" I protested.

"Yeah. You yelled," Geoff confirmed, swinging by the desk and snagging a Choco-orange Doozie as he passed.

"It was justified," I said. I was tempted to drive over _now_—but Ducky said noon. If she wasn't going to be ready, my lurking about might catch a reporter's eye. And that was the last thing on my list. Or at least next to last.

I stashed the doughnuts in the break room and literally rolled out the carpet for our already arriving guests. (I found it at a yard sale about a month after I opened the store. Someone had taken a ten-by-ten chunk of carpet and hand-dyed the map from _The Phantom Tollbooth_ onto it. Not hand-_painted_; hand-_dyed_. The coloring went down to the base of the carpet; you could walk on it for years and not lose the pattern. Every year we hold a _Phantom_ marathon, reading the book cover-to-cover, nonstop, over a four-day weekend of our choosing. Ducky asked that it be around his birthday, and that could be my gift to him; his September 19 birthday is smack in the middle of the week, so, oh, _gosh_, I'll have to think of something else to give him. (I have ideas. Lots of ideas.) We'll read the book the weekend _before_ his birthday, though, as an extra goodie.) A lot of the parents like to come early and help set up; since many of them have been employees over the years, it becomes old home week very quickly.

"Hey, Story Lady!"

I knew that voice anywhere. "Story _Time_," I corrected primly. "Mustn't be sexist." I was enveloped in a bear hug from one of my earliest part-timers; Tim Walinski is at least a foot taller than I, and broad enough to cover the back four of the Patriots. He was also one of my first employees, a part-time clerk who worked around his college schedule for four years. He was far more suited to be a teacher than I and has spent the past twenty-five years as a grade-school teacher. Even now, when teachers deserved hazardous duty pay, he had no plans to retire. He had been one of our first story participants, which is when Story Lady became Story Time. "How goes the battle?"

He shrugged. "Same ol' thing." Tim teaches at Milton Dooley, in one of the most poorly funded districts. He brings in boxes and boxes of books every month and I give him higher credit than most people get and take stuff I'd otherwise turn away—because _all_ of his credit is given to him in one-dollar-increment slips. He calls them "scholar dollars" and hands them out as rewards for everything from cleaning erasers to making a 5% improvement from one test to the next. (Yes, erasers. Between budget cuts and vandalism, his room still has chalkboards.) Sometimes Tim even drives a group of the kids to the store to turn in their credit slips because they don't have money for the Metro. He gets kids to read for _fun_, no mean feat when half of the parents can't read and the other half don't. He glanced at the book peeping out of my apron pocket. "So. _Charlotte's Web_?"

"Yep. My turn to read. Are you trading today?"

"Yep," he teased. "Got the van loaded. Didn't know I was going to be running into Story Time, though," he winced. Story Time bounces around the calendar. It used to depend on the school calendar; then some of the districts in the Tri-State area went to year-round. So now it flits from one day to another and different times. Most of the customers don't care; they check the window, the sign by the register, the website or even the after-hours phone message and find out the day and time. The few people who _do_ grumble—well, they're the ones who will complain about anything and are never happy unless they _are_ complaining, so to heck with them.

"And I have to leave at lunchtime. But Valerie can handle things, she knows where your slips are."

"Need any help?"

"I never say no." He set out folding chairs around the perimeter of the rug for the parents while I set up the easels with blow-ups of illustrations from the chapters we were reading and Cherie and Marcy got out the juice and cookies. Most of the kids were old-timers; they grabbed a bottle or box (or two; we always set out enough for three times our usual audience) and bag of cookies or trail mix (whatever their parents okayed—again, we put out plenty of extras) and started marking their turf on the floor. The grownups knew to get coffee or tea from the permanent setup near the front counter, and any newbies quickly figured it out. Randy, Alan and Geoff would sort out who ran the register and who kept the rest of the jobs running (none of them liked doing checkout; tough noogies, it's part of the job) and we'd go with the flow.

I sat on the lone rocking chair in the Sea of Knowledge. "Let's see…" I made a show of thumbing through the book. "Where _were_ we…"

"Wilbur! Wilbur tried to run away!"

"Fern gotted the pig because he was a runt!"

"That was way at the start, Miss Sandy wantsta know what we _stopped_, you reee-tard."

I stopped what I was doing and looked over the top of my prop glasses as I'd seen Ducky do many a time. I raised an eyebrow and gave the young offender a stern look. My shop, my rules. No name-calling.

Drake hunched his shoulders. He knows the rules. "Sorry, Miss Sandy." I looked from him to his younger sister. I know it killed him to do it, but he said what was required: "Sorry, Danielle."

She didn't even notice. This was her brother; she was used to talk like that. It was more a lesson for Drake and the other kids than it was to make her feel better. I gave Drake a smile to let him know we were still friends and turned back to the book. "So. We are on chapter four, titled 'Loneliness.'"

We made it through three chapters with minimal distraction. ("What's sulfur?" "It's a mineral, found in the earth. They use it in insecticides, bleaching paper, all sorts of things." "Euu! Why would they make Wilbur take that?" "It's also used in medicines. We can look it up after we finish reading.") ("Charlotte—Charlotte _eats_ bugs?" "Yes, she does." "That is so _gross_." "But bugs wouldn't take over like she says. Right?" "Well, they could. So it's a good thing that Charlotte and the other spiders eat them." "My dad—my dad—he got a pider bite when he cleaned our bament and he almost losted his foot!" (Now _I_ wanted to say "euu.")) We ended on a cheery note, Mr. Zuckerman discovering the goslings. (Since the next chapter is where Wilbur discovers he's being fattened up to be dinner at a later time, I sure wasn't going to stop _there._) I always cry when Charlotte finally kicks the bucket; with any luck, strong and silent Alan would be the reader that week.

While Marcy and Cherie cleaned up the kids' area, I scurried to the front of the store. Valerie was still going through Tim's trade credit; his minivan was packed full. Randy had drawn the short straw and was running the register; Story Time pulls in a large crowd, and having them check out all around the same time is a little nerve wracking. I tallied up the totals, checked the credit slips, adjusted as needed and passed the customer down the counter. Most of the customers were parents and kids from the group, but there were a few college students and random shoppers in the group as well.

Mom and two young boys. Stack of Paddington Bear books, stack of assorted dinosaur-themed books and a _big_ stack of supernatural romances. Next was a college student (maybe high school)—Balzac, Disraeli, Goethe, Dickens, Poe, Melville, Hawthorne and a ton of Cliff's Notes to go with them. 19th Century English Lit was my guess. A mixed bag of easy readers, Nancy Drews, _The Red Fairy Tale Book, The Blue Fairy Tale Book, The Pink—_the whole rainbow was there. One of the new (to us) Chilton's manuals, this one for a 1968 Econoline Van. ("I love you," the young man said earnestly as I gave him his slip.) A dozen books from the _Babysitters_ series. A stack of _Anne of Green Gables._ _Goosebumps. _Aliens and monsters and such. And the list went on.

I checked the clock: 11:28. Last customer from the rush crowd. I gave Randy the nod to leave the counter; Valerie would be up any moment so I could dash to the hospital. "Let's see…" I started sorting out the books. A book on victory gardens. One on building your own backyard fountains. Reader's Digest books on home repair and do-it-yourself. (I was beginning to sense a theme.) Boxed set of the first five Foxfire books. Boxed set of the remaining six Foxfire books. A book on making your own loom and a companion book on weaving by the same author. A stack of Craig Rice mysteries, another of James Anderson's, a boxed set of the Narnia books, the old _Tell Me Why_ books, half a dozen _Eyewitness_ books (those are cool books; I find myself reading as I shelve them), several _Redwall_ books, _Eragon_ and _Eldest_, my favorite E. L. Koningsburg and Zilpha Keatley Snyder titles—oh, to be a kid again and discover these books for the first time…!

"We missed last week. The girls want to get caught up," the woman said as I added _Charlotte's Web_ to the stack. "Honey, we need to pay for your books."

I blinked in surprise. She was speaking to the younger of the two girls, the toddler in the stroller. No tantrums, no screech of, "MINE!" The young lady used both hands to hold up each of what turned out to be eight books, everything from Dr. Seuss' _Oh, the Places You'll Go!_ and _Yertle the Turtle_ to oldies nobody has read for fifty years like _The Gingerbread House_. "Mom likes to read to you, hunh?" I said conversationally.

"Well, yes," 'Mom' admitted with a laugh. "But those are the books she wants to read to herself."

I stopped tapping the calculator keys. "How old… _is_ she?"

"Leigh Anne is two and a half. Ellie is almost exactly three years older. Three years, four days, to be exact." I must have looked startled (stunned, even) because she handed the top book back to the little girl who was impatiently swinging her feet. "Would you like to read this to us, Lee-Lee?"

"Okay." Her voice was soft, but very clear. She turned the first pages very carefully. (I was doubly impressed. Most little kids treat book pages like they're made of cast iron.) "_Con-gra-tu-la-tions. Today is your day. You're off to great places. You're off and away_."

"No, she hasn't memorized it." (Mom's a mind reader. And she had a sly smile, like someone hiding a great secret.)

"Did you use that teach a baby to read program?" I'd thought it was a bunch of malarkey, but…

"No," she said. "But my husband and I are both avid readers. We were reading to the girls from the moment they were born. Now that we've moved back and I know you're still here, I think bookstore credit will be coin of the realm for biddable chores."

"Biddable chores?" I meant to ask about 'moved back/still in business' but got distracted.

"You're the one who gave me _Cheaper By the Dozen_ to read, Sandy!" she laughed.

Now I was in a pickle. I'd recommended that book to probably two hundred people over the years. Fortunately she was kind enough to spare me the humiliation of asking.

"Chanda! Chanda Davis, now, but when I worked here—"

"Chanda Lear!" I squealed. (I always thought she should sue her parents. She figured she did better than some of the kids at school—such as the twins in her senior class, Patty and Angel Cake. Or a fellow junior, Holliday Cruze. She showed me her yearbook for proof. Frankly, some parents should have their kids named by committee.) Well, _that_ explained her secretive smile. "_Back_ to Washington. Where did you go?" The credit card reader spit out her receipt and I handed it to her.

"New Mexico. Jerry was teaching there, but he wasn't really happy. A lot of politics at the community college level. My grandmother died this spring—"

"Oh, I'm so very sorry."

"I came back to help mom clear out the house, god, she was a packrat… Mom doesn't want to let the house go out of the family, so Jerry and I discussed it and decided to move back."

"I'm so glad," I said in all sincerity. I took the signed receipt and shoved it through the register slot.

"I'm really glad, too. I'm sorry about grandmother—but with her health, it was a kindness. And I understand Mom's feelings—I love that house, I grew up half there and half at home. We're still clearing stuff out! And I'm so glad the girls will get to grow up with Papyrus as a memory, not just a story I've told them." She rolled her head around. "A lot bigger than I remember."

"No place to go but up. Or start another store." I caught sight of the clock and winced. "Chanda, I hate to break this up, but I have to go. I'm picking up a friend—"

"Not a problem. Gotta go do the marketing. Believe me—we'll be back." She tucked books in every open spot on the stroller and carefully stacked the remainder on the top—Lee-Lee was still reading Dr. Seuss to anyone who would listen, while her sister had snagged a book from the stack and was lost in _Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth_—and maneuvered everyone out the door. I watched Ellie dodge the swinging door and make a perfect 90-degree right hand turn and then walk around the big stone trash barrel, all without hesitation and never looking up from her book. I shook my head—based on her sonar navigation, she had chosen the perfect book to read. I grinned. She and Charlie _had_ to meet.

"Leaving!" I yelled to Valerie as I dashed for the back door.

"Gotcha!" she called back. I could hear her pelting for the front counter.

Praying for clear traffic, I hit the road hard. I didn't do too badly; I pulled into the Howard U parking lot at 12:07. I politely ignored the news crews (now plural, dammit) in the front circle and ambled over to the front desk. "I'm here to pick up a patient."

The desk clerk didn't even glance up from her computer. "Patient Discharge, room 210." She pointed down the hall.

I trudged down the hall to an office where _one_ woman was processing discharges—and _six_ people were patiently waiting. My heart sank. By the time I got through, the whole story would be on the news and Fran would never have a moment's peace—or even get out of the hospital without harassment.

The phone on the desk rang. "Patient Discharge, Carol speaking," she said with a tired sigh. She covered the mouthpiece. "We take Visa, MasterCard, Amex and Discover," she recited to the woman standing in front of her. The woman flinched at the total on the sheet and gave an irritated look at the teenage boy perched on crutches next to her. Mindful of the HIPAA laws I headed toward the other side of the room where the other five waited politely. "Yes?" Carol said into the phone. "One moment." She covered the receiver again. "Is there a Cassandra Talmadge here?"

I stopped and turned around. "I am she," I said, trying not to leap forward.

She stared at me blankly. "Ah. Right. She's here." She listened a moment longer, her face going professional and blank. "Understood," she said almost formally. "Yes. I will." She hung up and gave me a smile that was just a hair too bright. "Dr. Webber is waiting upstairs with your aunt." (My _what_?) "He's already seen to her discharge. The hotel is taking care of everything."

'Why?' I wanted to ask. Instead I settled for a noncommittal, "That's nice."

"Well, the poor dear, slipping on the wet stairs and dislocating her shoulder like that? It's the least they could do."

Okay. Hospital staff members _don't_ discuss patient particulars. Hand out the bagels and cream cheese—red herring is being served on a platter.

"I agree," I said quickly. "Where's Dr. Webber now? And—" I drew a blank. "Aunt Betty Jo?" I finally pulled from the depths.

"Up in her room. Tell her I hope the rest of her tour of D.C. goes better than it has."

"I will. Thank you!" I called with a cheery wave as I headed out the door.

With more than a little unease growing around me, I made my way upstairs. "Betty Jo Wainright?" I asked the duty nurse. I wasn't chancing an unannounced entry.

"Oh! You must be her niece! Dr. Webber told us to expect you." She pointed down the hall. "1104A."

Of course. Fran was in 1104B. "Thanks." I took a deep breath before entering the room—

—and clapped both hands over my mouth to keep from bursting into whoops of laughter. "Oh, my god," I croaked out, as the door shut behind me.

"I'm pleased to say your aunt is doing very well, Miss Talmadge," Dr. Webber said gravely.

"I'm—so glad," I gasped.

Fran was already sitting in the obligatory wheelchair. It _had_ to be Fran—I'd know those eyes anywhere. But that was all I recognized.

Her face and hands were wrinkled like crepe paper and her makeup was the overdone eye shadow and rouge you often see on elderly women. She was dressed in a chartreuse tracksuit; _**BINGO ISN'T A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH—IT'S MORE IMPORTANT THAN THAT!**_ was in glittering script on the hot pink shirt under the jacket. Her gorgeous hair was covered by a wig of stone gray sausage curls and a pair of glasses with lenses about ½" thick hung on a chain around her neck. "Words… fail me."

"Abby swore me to secrecy." I recognized the young woman curled in the chair I had used the night before—Misty, the leggy blonde from Abby's theatre group, the gal who had make me look so good the prior Halloween.

"This… is… _great_," I gushed.

"We're going to give a statement this afternoon that the still-unnamed shooting victim will be released in a day or two," Dr. Webber said. He was serious now, not playacting. "Ducky knows what to look for, what care she'll need. I have no problem releasing her, knowing she'll be under his eye."

"Not to mention, locked inside the Navy Yard for the day," Misty added.

"Anything I need to know about my… aunt?"

"No flying," he said.

"And no trains," she grumbled.

"So, what—you have to hitchhike home?"

She shook her head. "No tickets available until tomorrow night. Ducky told me I'm taking the spare bedroom—or else."

I grinned. "And he means it."

"Let's get this show on the road. The vultures are getting pushy," Dr. Webber said. He leaned over and grabbed the phone and punched a number. "Orderly to 1104A. Discharge. Dr. Richard Webber, ID 41305. Five minutes? Good." He hung up. "They _do_ know I'm the physician of record for the shooting victim. I don't want them paying any attention to us, so I'll leave you at the elevator."

Fran perched the glasses on her nose. The circles were easily 3 inches across and covered from above her eyebrows to the crest of her cheekbones. Plastic rims of purple, lavender and silver swirls and dotted with multi-colored rhinestones; I immediately thought of Elton John in his Captain Fantastic stage. They went perfectly with her outfit… if you were colorblind.

"Oh, my _god._" Fran's left hand clutched the armrest. "This is like being on a roller coaster… inside the funhouse."

"Those are my neighbor's backup glasses in case she breaks her current prescription," Misty said. "She's _really_ farsighted."

"I can guess," I said. The lenses distorted Fran's eyes, making her look like a frightened mongoose.

There was a tap the door. The orderly, a young woman whose polite, "Mrs. Wainright?" sounded closer to Chennai than Chicago, entered the room. She smiled respectfully at Fran.

"Yes, oh, yes, my heavens." Fran didn't go for creaky—which can sound so fake when not done well—but went with fluttery. "Oh, look! Those are such _pretty_ earrings! Doesn't she have the _prettiest_ earrings, Cassie, dear?"

"Beautiful," I agreed.

"And—oh, my, _such_ a lovely smile! You must have boyfriends a-plenty," 'Aunt Betty Jo' said with a playful wag of her finger.

The young woman—whose nametag said AMI MALIK—shook her head. "I am a happily married woman," she said, showing off her left hand. "But thank you for your kind words."

"Such a lucky boy!" Fran kept up a line of inane chatter the whole way, Misty and I playing along. DNA was showing true; as good an actor as Cameron is, Fran was even better. I don't think he could have pulled off an improvisation like this.

To my grateful surprise, Dr. Webber was right. Despite—or perhaps because of—Fran's day-glow wardrobe, we were ignored by the paparazzi. They barely looked at us when we rolled Fran to the sidewalk cutout marked **PATIENT PICK UP/DROP OFF ****ONLY****! **I made a land speed record getting back to my van; Misty held the chair as Ami helped Fran into the van and handed her her plastic bag of personal items, then they both waved as we drove away.

"Oh, god, now I know why actors bitch about latex," she groaned. "This itches like crazy!"

"I think Ducky wants you to keep it on." Now it made sense—Fran wouldn't look at _all_ like the picture on her driver's license. No way would the guard let her pass.

"Can I at least take off the glasses?"

"I guess it's safe." I couldn't blame her. I looked through Gamma's glasses—once. It was like a bad acid trip without the drugs. I tapped the cell phone in its' dock. "Call Autopsy," I ordered.

"Call Autopsy?"

"Yes."

The phone rang twice. "Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."

"Auntie and I are on our way," I grinned.

"Wonderful. And how is the old dear?"

"Just fabulous. She can't wait to meet my fiancé."

Ducky laughed. "See you soon."

I tapped the screen. "You get such a nice smile when he's around. Even if it's just on the phone," Fran said.

"Probably the same look you get when you're talking about Cal," I said with a snicker.

"I think you'll like him," she said simply.

I nodded. "I probably will."

/ / /

Ducky wasn't waiting for us.

Gibbs was.

"Who's that?" Fran whispered as we pulled up.

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," I whispered back. Not like he could _hear_ us—you just tend to want to whisper when he's in the vicinity. "He's the leader of his pack."

She looked appropriately impressed. "Oh."

I was familiar with the drill. I handed over my ID and the key to the back door. One guard made note of my driver's license number while the other went back to see if we were sneaking anyone in or slipping in some contraband. As the first guard looked over at Fran, Gibbs put a hand on the clipboard.

"Jane Doe."

"Agent Gibbs? Sir?"

"No ID. Witness in a case. Write her as Jane Doe under MCRT. I'll sign off."

Don't argue with someone who's higher on the food chain. The guard filled out the paper, Gibbs signed it and jerked his head to the left. I pulled into a visitor slot and we met up with him at the front entrance.

"Ducky sure can come up with some interesting ideas, hunh?"

I matched his rueful smile with one of my own. "Yep."

He escorted us through security and directly to Autopsy. "All in one piece, Duck."

"Thank you, Jethro." Phew; no bodies.

"Glad to see you looking so well, ma'am." Gibbs always makes me think of a cowboy when he says 'ma'am.'

"Thank you." Fran was still a little shy around him.

He gave her a wink. "Like the t-shirt."

That made her giggle. After Gibbs left, she gave Ducky a pathetic look. "How long—"

"I think it's safe. I was just concerned with you getting out of the hospital unmolested."

For some reason that struck her as funny. She giggled, then winced. "Ow." She reached up to her face, then slowly brought her hand back down.

"Abigail's friend will be here shortly; we'll let her supervise the removal of your—" He waved his hand toward her.

"I do this for a living. I've seen too many people injure themselves from this side of the makeup chair. However…" She carefully peeled off her wig.

"Want me to get something more—ah—hip from your suitcase?"

"Please, yes. Jeans, t-shirt, whatever."

Ducky snorted faintly. "More _sedate_ would be a better choice."

"What? You don't like electric chartreuse and pink?" He shuddered. "Ah, nuts. And I was going to get that for Mother this Christmas."

"She would, too, just to be ornery," he said as I left the room.

I passed Abby and Misty coming through main security. "Fran is—literally—itching for you to arrive."

"Can't blame her," Misty called over her shoulder. "I _hate_ wearing that stuff."

Well, _I_ hate pawing through someone else's belongings. Never mind that I helped Fran sift through her stuff after Alyce went flinging things hither and yon. That was under her supervision; this wasn't.

It took me twice as long as it normally would have. I made sure to pack everything back nicely and neatly (I'd never make it as a baggage screener), finally settling with jeans, a Happy Bunny t-shirt ("Just tell me I am awesome and move along.") and sandals. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have set foot out of the hospital sans underwear and a bra and was equally sure the orthopedic shoes she was sporting weren't hers. (On the chance she wasn't as willing to wear a smartass t-shirt around Gibbs as I was, I grabbed a second t-shirt covered in cutesy-poo kittens and rainbows and butterflies.)

As I went to latch the suitcase again, I noticed the shirt had tiny lettering woven in and among the artwork. I had to squinch my eyes a bit but finally made out _Minimize your therbligs until it becomes automatic; this doubles your effective lifetime—and thereby gives time to enjoy butterflies and kittens and rainbows._ I laughed out loud, making a passing guard glance my way. The quote was from Robert A. Heinlein… and a therblig was something created by Frank Gilbreth, whose children wrote—ta-da—_Cheaper By the Dozen_, the book Chanda had mentioned a couple of hours ago. "Circle of life," I muttered and locked the van door.

By the time I returned to Autopsy, Fran was looking far more like her normal self. Face red from scrubbing, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks, but decidedly more like Fran. I showed her the options I'd pulled. Good thing I chose a backup; she looked embarrassed at the Happy Bunny and chose the butterflies t-shirt. She followed Ducky's indication to the change room. "Let me know if you need any help," I called. I turned to Ducky. "Okay, she's out of the hospital, she's away from the media, she's safe. And she'll be just as safe with me, at the bookstore, as she would be here."

Abby snickered. "Don't tell Gibbs that."

I sighed. "Okay, if she needed armed protection—then, yes, she'd be safer here." I kept my voice low. "Alyce is in jail—even if she weren't, she got what she was so desperate to avoid: bad publicity. So she's no threat. I love you guys like crazy—"

"Some of us more than others," Abby quickly interjected.

Ducky looked embarrassed. And a teensy bit smug. "I understand your wanting to keep Fran close by. You were talking to her when she was hurt—it's an offshoot of 'if you save someone's life, you're responsible for them.'" I sighed; sometimes I wish he'd choke on that psych degree. "But there is no _doctor_ at the store," he continued. "Dr. Webber agreed to Francesca leaving only because she would be _here_, under my care." He patted my hand. "You can take her to play at the store tomorrow," he teased. "Her train doesn't leave until well after dinnertime."

Thirty-plus hours to keep her in hiding—and healthy. I sighed again.

"Maybe Mother could come in with you."

Ducky views that as a threat. I don't. "Good. Geoff was asking about her this morning."

"And we could all go to the Gypsy for dinner."

That's called stacking the deck. But… Fran would like that. Frankly, I wouldn't feel settled until she was calling from L.A. to say she'd gotten there safely. ZNN isn't called Zealot News Network for nothing. "What time will you guys be home?"

"Seven-ish, I'd guess. We'll catch lunch here at the cafeteria in a bit." I tried not to look appalled, and Ducky laughed. "It has improved since you last ate here, my dear. Apparently the cook was going through a bad romance and it affected her culinary output."

"Never piss off the cook."

"Was _that_ the problem?" Abby said in disgust. "I figured some enemy force had put her on their payroll and she was picking us off with her mystery casserole instead of a more direct method." She hopped down from her perch on Ducky's desk.

"Thank you again for your brilliant idea, Abigail." Ducky patted Abby's hand and she flung her arms around him in a hug. "It worked beautifully."

I gave him my own farewell hug. "See you tonight." I tackled Abby in a hug before she could get me first. "You haven't been in for ages! The boys are starting to pout."

"I'm working on a gnarly project—but I promise. Next week. For sure."

I looked at the limp wig. (Vickie Lawrence would have made a great partner for this.) "Your idea? I should have guessed."

She sighed. "If I'd known in advance, I could have brought in my bowling outfit."

I've seen her bowling outfit. "Abby… only _you_ can pull off that outfit. You're… made for each other."

/ / /

"She just walked in." Valerie held the phone out. "Evelyn."

"Whazzup?"

"Turn on the TV." Her voice was flat and hard.

My heart plummeted. I put the call on hold and hurried to the office. I reactivated the call on my desk phone and turned the TV on at the same moment. "What am I looking for?"

"You still get E! channel?"

It was right next to Bravo. An overly made up (in my opinion) young woman was giving us the daily dirt. "—night, but several sharp-eyed viewers have called and tweeted and emailed and posted on our Facebook page, identifying her as Francesca Peterson of Los Angeles—"

"Shit!" And the dim bulb didn't even pronounce 'Francesca' decently.

Jaw clenched, I watched the segment. They were right about some things (identifying Fran, Alyce and Cameron and the fact that Alyce shot Fran), wrong about others (Fran was supposedly still in the hospital and near death; please, don't let Mary hear this!) and smart enough not to speculate on the rest (they hadn't twigged to the relationship between the three—so far). The screen changed to a shot of Alyce and Cameron at her arraignment that morning. Orange is _not_ her color. No makeup, hair pulled back in a clumsy ponytail—she looked like crap. Good. Cameron looked like someone had clipped him on the temple with a two-by-four. He'd shaved and he was combed and put together pretty well, but he still looked like crap. Not as bad as Alyce, though. I was starting to feel sorry for him.

Alyce pled not guilty. No shocker, there. Amazingly enough, there was no speculation as to why Alyce shot Fran. She even made a point of saying, "We can't even _begin_ to speculate" (mispronounced as 'speck-a-lit').

"Shit!" I yelped again. Lily's picture was on the screen.

Over Evelyn's gasp, I heard the woman say, "The second charge of attempted murder is of Lillian McAllister of Washington, D.C. McAllister is a genealogist in D.C. and was shot while visiting her father in upscale Reston, Virginia." I groaned aloud; father? "She was shot July 11 in what appeared to be a drive-by shooting, but sources in the Washington police department have positively linked the two cases." Fran's picture joined Lily's on the screen; at least they both took decent DMV shots. "There's no apparent link between Lillian McAllister and Francesca Peterson, and no link on the surface to Alyce and Cameron Carson." She didn't comment on how much alike the girls looked. The pictures disappeared, and the semi-literate host reappeared. She leaned in toward the camera. "Rumor has it—and this is _just_ a rumor—" Which means it would be accepted as fact tomorrow. "—CC was about to hit Alyce with divorce papers." She gave the viewers a naughty look. "Makes you really wonder about those two young women, hunh? Stay tuned—"

"Ohhh, _shiiiiiit_," I drew out. (I lost track at seven.)

"Great news, eh?" Evelyn said grimly.

"Well…" I hunted for a bright spot. "At least Charlie's grandmother can't use this against Lily." As bright spots go, that was about a ten-watt bulb in a brownout.

Evelyn snorted. "Wanna bet?"

_No thanks; I'm broke as it is._ "I'd better let Ducky know. Fran is at NCIS, under his wing—so to speak."

"Hey!" Ev brightened. "Let's sic Gibbs on E!"

"Don't tempt me. Or him. If we had let Gibbs and Ducky 'deal with' Alyce, there wouldn't have been an arraignment." There wouldn't have been a _body_.

"Well, give him my love and a big ol' hug. Ducky. Not Gibbs. Of course, if Gibbs takes care of Alyce…" she mused. "And Charlie _does _like him…"

"He gave Mrs. K a nice smack down," I offered.

"Yeah, he sure did, didn't he?" she said cheerfully. "Yeah, give Gibbs a hug, too." (That far, I won't go.)

"How is Lily faring?"

"If I didn't love her, I'd hate her."

"Wolverine, hunh?"

"It fits. Tell Grandma that to make up for us only coming over tomorrow, Lily is making something extra special for dessert."

"Yeah? What?"

Ev laughed. "I don't know. She won't tell me!" I laughed with her, feeling a tiny bit better. "Call me later."

"Will do." I clicked the phone off and then back on and dialed.

"Autopsy, Dr. Mallard."

I pasted a perky smile on my puss. "Hiiiiii, honeeeeeey. How are things going?"

He laughed. "You've only been gone twenty minutes!"

"Well…" I said in a teasing voice. "You and Fran playing gin rummy? She's almost as good as Mother."

"No." Another laugh. "She and Misty are being escorted to the cafeteria by Abby. They should be back any moment with our lunch."

I dropped my smile. "I'll talk fast, then."

I gave him a quick rundown of what I had just seen. For each 'shit' he substituted 'oh, _damn._' But we reached the same conclusion: Fran would be kept in the dark as much as possible, as long as possible.

And the TV was staying _off._

* * *

-10-


	11. Chapter 11:  Plans

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**Plans**

* * *

___The best__-____laid__ schemes o' ____mice__ an' ____men gang aft agley_. Thank you, Robert Burns.

Our vow to keep Fran in a cocoon didn't quite work out as planned.

Ducky called me less than a half hour later. "Francesca and I will be leaving momentarily."

"Is she… okay?" I asked cautiously.

"Mmh. Because Jethro signed her in, he's escorting her downstairs, so I have the opportunity to call you, ah—"

"Without extra ears?"

"Precisely."

The story was short. And unhappy. When Abby and her charges returned with lunch, Fran was quiet and withdrawn to the point it sounded like she was channeling her mother. Misty tried interesting Fran in eating lunch or just chatting about specialty makeup (to no avail) while Abby pulled Ducky into the hall for a tête-à-tête.

"We get up to the cafeteria and someone left the _D.C. Ledger_ on a table. Alyce didn't make the front page of part one—but she was front page of _Arts and Leisure_, and _guess_ which chunk of the newspaper was right on top? Of course. Great, big picture of her looking so smug, so haughty, so—" Abby's extensive vocabulary had failed her. "So she's already feeling blue, we get our food, and I figured we could run through the bullpen, you know Tony _always_ flirts with pretty girls and that's _always_ a pick-me up—"

"What happened?" I asked. It was pretty obvious it hadn't gone the way Abby hoped.

Ducky sighed. "ZNN was updating the segment Jethro saw this morning. Francesca's picture was included this time. Anthony was startled enough that he said, 'Wow! You look a lot like—' He caught himself sufficiently to say 'Ziva.' Ignoring the fact that Ziva and Francesca have only dark hair and dark eyes in common, the damage was done. Ziva rose to the occasion admirably and thanked Anthony for the compliment, but Francesca..." He sighed again. "Abigail said she seemed to shrink into herself and just followed her downstairs like a shadow."

"Oh, poor Fran…" She didn't ask for any of this.

"Jethro saw what happened. He came downstairs, said I'd worked far too much overtime of late and since we didn't have an active case, why not 'cut loose' and go home early. 'Take advantage of the slump.'"

I have it on good authority (Ducky) that Gibbs thinks my caramel walnut cookies are the bomb. He just earned a lifetime supply.

"Should I leave—"

"No, no. I'm sure what she needs most is rest. Rest and a good, long cry."

"I'll join her," I said wryly. "Well… if you change your mind…"

"I'll call." His voice was gentle. "I promise."

I closed my eyes, fighting the prick of tears. "Am I crazy for now wishing you _had_ been Fran's father?"

"Then we're both crazy. And _I_ knew it wasn't possible."

"Call me when you get home?"

"I will."

/ / /

As promised, Ducky called about 45 minutes later. "I have _never_ talked so much in my life."

I forced myself not to laugh; I love Ducky with all my heart, soul and eyelashes—but he will _never_ play Calvin Coolidge. "Oh?"

He sighed and I could hear the heartache in his very breath. "Francesca is upstairs, resting. She was virtually silent the entire drive home."

"You mean really quiet or…"

"If I had ten cents for every word she spoke… I'd not be able to order from the 'dollar menu' at any fast food establishment."

Yeah—that's really quiet.

"She roused herself enough to talk to Mother—you rather have to, as a matter of self-preservation. Mother confused her with Lily, again; when she questioned repeatedly if she had been shot—" I gasped. "Francesca said that she had tripped on the escalator at the shopping mall. Considering her frame of mind, she was quite quick-witted."

"Better actor than her dad is," I muttered.

"Mother's response was, 'I hope you sue!'"

"What?" I half-laughed.

"Mother has rediscovered… daytime television."

"Soap operas?"

"No—courtroom dramas. They purport to be 'real-life cases,'" he quoted. "I don't know which I fear for more—the future of our judicial system or our educational system."

"How so?"

"Dear heavens, have you _heard_ the grammar and pronunciation of some of the participants? Appalling."

"So Mother didn't balk at Fran staying over?"

"Heavens, no. She's gathered her into the fold. I expect Francesca to call her 'grandmother' any moment."

"Not bad. She's adopted four granddaughters in as many weeks."

"And these need no two a.m. feedings."

"Huh. You haven't seen Evelyn on a midnight munchies raid on the fridge."

"She can fend for herself."

"I'm knocking off early. Actually, I'm being kicked out—Valerie says my place is at home with you, keeping an eye on Fran."

He laughed, a beautiful sound. "Give her a raise."

"She's not due until next month. But you can sign the letter that goes with the check."

/ / /

It was only just past five when I got home (I love not fighting rush hour traffic on the weekends). When I walked in, the house was silent. If you strained your ears, you could hear appliances humming, a clock ticking, but—no dogs. No people.

I stopped in the doorway to the living room/sitting room/parlor/whatever the hell. Ducky was in his favorite leather chair, semi-slumped to the right, book limp in his hands. I'd caught him dozing in that chair two or three dozen times; he always looks so rumpled and endearing it makes me smile. It made me smile this time, too.

Either he heard me or sensed me. "What time is it?"

"Ten past five."

He stretched lightly, wincing as vertebrae shifted and cracked. "Where is Mother?"

"Hello… I just got here?"

He frowned. "Ah. Yes. She and Suzy just left with the dogs."

"How is Fran?"

"You might want to frisk her when she leaves. She is completely enamored of Underfoot, and the feeling is mutual. Last I saw, she was stretched out on the bed, and he's next to her, rather like a furry body pillow."

"He's good at that."

Ducky grinned, that sweet, slightly cockeyed smile that just melts my heart. "I know." Many a time he's awakened to that pillow next to him and purring in his ear.

I perched on the arm of the chair, facing him, and curved my hand on the side of his throat. "Thank you… for having me in your life."

"You are the most welcome addition my life has ever had."

I leaned over and kissed him and snuggled my head into his shoulder. A little awkward, but I didn't care. "Now I know how sailors of old felt."

He slipped his arms about me, lightly stroking my back. "How so?"

"I can just picture them, months and months at sea, finally coming home and they look at the harbor and the feeling of _home_ that must have washed over them…" I sighed and leaned into him. "That's how I feel around you. I look in your eyes and feel like I've finally come home."

"Even after these past weeks?"

"_Especially_ after these past weeks."

I ignored the protestations of my spine for quite some time. Eventually there was a reluctant sigh from my prop. "We should probably do something about dinner."

"Call for Chinese?" I suggested. As soon as I said it, I wanted it. It sounded really, _really_ good.

"Hmm. We haven't been to Happy Dragon in quite some time…"

"No. Delivery," I said firmly. "I'll pay the tip."

"Well, in _that_ case…" he said expansively.

I pulled back to stand up, but stopped. "I love you." You can't say it enough. Aliens could kidnap me tonight and I'd regret not telling Ducky I loved him one last time. I leaned over to kiss him again but was stopped by the doorbell.

Ducky frowned at me. "Who in the world could that be? Suzy has a key. The girls won't be here until tomorrow…"

"Fuller Brush. Avon." I kissed him quickly and straightened up.

"Pampered Chef?" he asked hopefully.

"You wish." I headed to the door, Ducky, stretching and wincing slightly, trailing behind. "Hello…?"

The woman at the door sported a dark blonde asymmetrical pageboy with an expensive frosting job. Her lavender skirt and jacket and sparkling white blouse were equally costly, if my instincts were right. Career Girl Barbie, in the flesh. "Hi. DeeAnn Dabenow. I'm looking for Dr. Donald Mallard?" She flashed a million dollar smile.

My spidey sense said to tread cautiously. "He's tied up at the moment," I said politely, holding up my out-of-her-eyesight hand in a _stop, don't move, be quiet_ motion to Ducky. "May I give him a message?"

She frowned appealingly. "The Navy Yard said he left for the day…"

"Yes. He did," I agreed affably. That's as far as I went. Interesting that she tracked him down to the Navy Yard—on a Saturday.

"But he's not home."

"He's not available."

"Oh, I'm willing to wait."

He's not. And I'm sure as hell not. "I'd be happy to give him a message…"

Another bright smile. "And you are…?"

"Family friend." Yeah, my hinkies were hinkying big time.

"Well—I'd like to talk to Dr. Mallard. As soon as possible. Regarding the shooting."

I blinked. Shit! How did they track Fran here so quickly?

Fortunately, she mistook my silence for lack of understanding. "Last week? Lillian McAllister was shot—here? You _did_ know—"

"Yes, yes." Come on. All the media monitors the police bands. Lily's shooting was buried on page 21 of the Post. Even the local rag put it on page 5.

Aaah, but that was before it was linked to Fran. Or, more importantly (to reporters, anyway), linked to Alyce and Cameron Carson. I forced a smile. "I'll tell him."

She dug a card from her purse. "It's _vital_ I talk to him. As soon as possible," she said earnestly.

"I'll tell him," I repeated. The phone in the living room rang. "Excuse me. Bye!" I said quickly, shutting the door. Ducky was halfway to the phone. "Wait." I hustled over, cutting him off. "Mal-_lard_ res-i-dence, how may I _help_ you?" I almost shivered. That was the chirpy voice from 35 years ago, my part time job plugging cords in a PBX board.

"Dr. Mallard, please?"

"I'm _so_ sorry, Dr. Mallard is _un-_a-vail-a-ble. May I take a _mes-_sage?"

"Come on, you gotta know when he'll be back—"

"I'm _so_ sorry, but Dr. Mallard did not leave an itinerary with me." Small answering service, only ten boards, but every operator could send you into a diabetic coma with our trademark sweetness and light.

"No, no, no, I have to talk to him now—"

Back and forth we went. After five minutes he gave me his name: Harold Rodgers. From _The_ _Examiner_.

"They've never haunted my front door before, and there were any number of high profile cases in my career," Ducky groused.

I looked at DeeAnn's business card. WLRT, Channel 14. Goody. "Ah. But Cameron Carson is a _stah,_ dah-ling. Even Alyce is a celebrity. And that's the draw." The phone rang again. I pasted on a fake smile. "Mal-_lard_ res-i-dence, how may I _help_ you?"

"Sandy?"

Suzy. Sounding frantic. "What's wrong?"

"That's _my_ question! There are two news vans outside the house! They have cameras and lights—"

"Shit!" Dragging the phone with me, I flitted over to the far wall. I set the phone down and twitched the curtain back about half an inch. Yep. Two trucks, one on each half of the circular drive; DeeAnn Dabenow was standing in a spotlight, looking earnestly into the camera and talking even more earnestly. Next to the second truck a walking, talking Ken doll was being tweaked for his own performance.

"What should we do? I can't bring Victoria through that!"

"No, no—" I dropped the curtain and paced the room. Ducky watched me silently, looking perplexed (and a little distressed). "Okay. Where are you?"

"We kept on walking. We're down at the corner. Victoria is visiting with Mrs. Broward."

A kennel club member. Good. "I could snag your keys and drive over, then walk back. That would rescue you. But we can't put Mother through that, you're right."

Ducky gave me a wave. "Suzy?"

I moved the receiver aside. "She and Mother are holed up at Mrs. Broward's. There are two news trucks outside!"

He looked thunderstruck. He strode to the other side of the drapes and duplicated my movements. "Oh, for the love of—"

"Too bad Mother isn't having one of her sideways days," I sighed.

Suzy managed a laugh. "Could you get Mrs. Kemmelbacher down here?"

"Tempting." I paced some more.

Ducky stopped me and held out a hand. "Slip out the kitchen door. Join Suzy and Mother—then the three of you _and the dogs_ come back."

"But—" I protested even as I handed over the receiver.

"I… have an idea…"

"So long as Fran doesn't have to play dress up again," I muttered. "So long as _I_ don't have to play dress up."

I opened the kitchen door and peered out. Good; they were focused on the front of the house. I slipped past the garage and squeezed past the hedge bordering the McKirks'. Mrs. McKirk was staring out the front window, wide-eyed; I put a finger to my lips and she nodded. All those months of exchanging recipes gave us a solid bond. Plus she adored Victoria.

I sauntered casually to the end of the block. Suzy was just hanging up her phone. "We… go home," she said, puzzled.

"Why did he have me—"

She shrugged lightly. "He said, and I quote, 'let Mother be Mother—and let those yappy beasts do what they do best; Sandy will figure it out.'"

"She will, will she?" I looked down at the dogs sitting by Victoria's feet, heads cocked as if to say, _we__ know what to do, don't sweat it._ "Let's… go home."

Promising Mrs. Broward that we'd visit again soon, we headed back toward the bright lights.

"Oh, my heavens!" Victoria gasped as we drew closer. "Are—are we at the circus?"

"Roman circus," Suzy muttered in disgust.

When we got near the McKirks', DeeAnn spotted us. She recognized me (and was probably pissed that I'd outflanked her) and started trotting our way, gesturing to her cameraman.

Tyson took exception to this and planted himself front and center. And barked. Loudly.

Funny thing about dogs and genders; women seem to understand that small dogs can be just as dangerous as large ones—men, on the other hand, think bigger is better (for all things). Barbie shied back a bit but Ken blasted past her.

Tyson didn't move.

Isabeau and Contessa did.

It was kind of like a fight in a cartoon, a whirling, swirling cloud of gold and white fur with occasional limbs (human or canine) poking out and occasional cuss words (human or canine) flying through the air. At one point Ken screamed like a little girl.

"Isabeau! Contessa!" Victoria called, her voice distraught. "Be careful!"

I smothered a grin.

"Son of a bitch!" One of the cameramen landed on his butt on the grass, video unit landing safely on top of him.

Another screech from Ken. "Get this rat off of me! This is Armani!"

DeeAnn had taken advantage of the chaos to skirt the brawl and edge toward me. "You were in Dr. Mallard's house," she said with a shrewd look.

"Yep!" I said cheerily.

Victoria narrowed her eyes and stared at DeeAnn. "And who are _you_?" she asked haughtily.

"DeeAnn Dabenow, WLRT-News." She stuck out a hand, giving us a blinding smile.

Victoria drew back and stared at her. "Who?"

The smile faltered only a hair. "DeeAnn Dabenow, WLRT-14, news at six." She sounded almost hopeful.

"Is it six o'clock?" She turned to me. "Is it truly that late?"

"No, it's only a quarter to six." Suzy piped up.

"Good heavens!" She looked at us both in dismay. "We need to fix dinner. Donald shall be home soon!"

"Donald? Donald Mallard?" DeeAnn jumped on the name. "You know Dr. Mallard?"

"I don't know him, young lady. _I_ am his _mother_." She sucked in a horrified breath. "You—you—you _vixen_!"

DeeAnn gaped at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You—you have designs on my son! You look to steal him away from my dear Cassandra!"

I got a big ol' warm fuzzy hearing her protect me. I got the scare of the night seeing her pick up her cane and brandish it like a baseball bat.

"You shan't have him!" she cried. She took a tottering couple of steps forward and wobbled.

"Mother!" I yelped as Suzy grasped Victoria's arm to steady her.

Cooper and Tyson took the fore and aft points. The girls, hearing Victoria's raised voice and my outcry, abandoned their fun and bounded back, barking their _trouble, trouble, come quick!_ alert.

Victoria wanted to advance on DeeAnn, but the dogs weren't having any of that. "Stay away from my son!" she yelled, taking a Babe Ruth-worthy swing. Since DeeAnn was a good ten feet away, she was in no danger of the cane connecting.

"I just want to _talk_ to your son, ma'am," DeeAnn called.

"I'm going to sue!" Ken doll howled. "Those monsters attacked me, they bit me, I'm going to send every one of them to the pound!"

"About the shooting last week?" DeeAnn continued, ignoring her fellow tele-journalist.

Victoria stopped and pulled her cane back, almost hugging it. "You were shot?" she gasped.

"No, no, ma'am, it was Lillian McAllister who was shot."

"My dear, dear Lily…" She glowered. "_You_ shot her!"

"No, no!" DeeAnn took a reflexive step back. "Alyce Cameron shot—I mean, is accused of shooting her."

"You shot my Lily!" Victoria was shaking with fury.

I stepped into her line of vision. "Mother… Mother, it's all right." I gently held her upper arms. "The woman who shot Lily has been arrested. She's in jail." I didn't have to worry about the niceties of calling someone 'the accused' when they were all but caught with a smoking gun in hand. "This woman wants to interview Donald, talk to him about what happened."

"She wants to steal Donald away from you!" she half-wailed.

"I won't let her," I said firmly. "Let me talk to her, okay?"

Without waiting for acknowledgement, I turned back to Career Girl Barbie. "It's very distressing to Mrs. Mallard, as you can see. We need to get all of this—" I waved at the trucks and lights. "—gone. She's quite frail, and if she gets overly excited—" Just think how that would look: _while pursuing an interview, we caused the subject's mother to have a heart attack and drop dead in the street._ Ba-a-a-ad press. "It would be best if you contact Dr. Mallard at NCIS."

"But—"

"How smoothly will an interview go if you put his mother—who suffers dreadfully from Alzheimer's—into hysterics?"

"Don't talk to her, Cassandra," Victoria begged. "She is a spy!"

"Perhaps you're right—"

One down. I scooted over to her colleague, who was leaning against the brick pier at the end of the McKirks' fence, still bitching about the tears in his pants. I yanked the cuffs this way and that. "You aren't bitten. You weren't even grazed."

"These are fifteen-hundred-dollar slacks!"

Cry me a river. "Shop at Wal-Mart," I suggested. "You were advancing on a senile old lady who's just shy of a hundred years old. Her dogs sensed danger and ran in to protect her." I looked at him, unsmiling.

He quickly calculated the damage to his pants versus the potential damage to his image and gave me a stunning smile. "I'm so very sorry. I never meant to frighten her. I just need to speak with Dr. Mallard. If I could—"

"Call the Navy Yard," I said shortly and turned back to Suzy and Victoria. I gave Victoria a long hug. "Everything will be fine, Mother," I reassured her. "Let's get you home. We're sending out for Chinese food."

"Oh! May—may I get those _darling_ little ribs?"

"As many as you want."

She gave me a happy little smile. "Is Charlotte here, yet?"

"Not yet. They'll be here tomorrow, for lunch. And Lily is making you something special for dessert."

"Oh. Oh, all right."

We collected four leashes and walked the last couple of hundred yards to the front door, the remaining crewmembers respectfully falling aside like a human Red Sea.

"How was your walk, Mother?" Ducky was waiting in the hallway.

"Quite lovely. Eloise has a baby arriving next week!"

Ducky and I exchanged a glance; Eloise Broward is only about 25 years younger than Victoria. If she's popping out a baby next week, she's carrying it concave. (And I'm calling Guinness.) "A baby," Ducky repeated.

"Yes." She gave him a delighted smile.

"You mean a puppy, right? Another Corgi?"

She looked at me and patiently repeated, "No… a _baby_.'

"Mother—Mrs. Broward is _not_ going to have a baby," Ducky said patiently.

She gave both of us a look that clearly asked 'how stupid do you think I am?' (with a little bit of 'how stupid are _you_?' thrown in). "Of course not. Her great-granddaughter was born last week and they're all coming to visit!" Shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she hobbled toward the kitchen.

"Thank heavens," Ducky said fervently.

"Amen," Suzy and I chorused.

"So. What was your 'plan?' It seemed pretty 'fly by the seat of your pants' to me."

"It was," he admitted. "I just had faith that the dogs would behave as they normally would… and so would Mother."

I wagged a finger. "It would have served you right if she had running on all cylinders. Of course, if she had, we'd still be out there."

From the top of the stairs came a soft 'miau'—Foot, surveying his kingdom. Or offering to finish the job the dogs had started.

"Is Fran up?" I asked Ducky.

"Not that I've heard. Although she might have heard the ruckus outside—"

"We were that loud?"

"Well… only because the house was so quiet in comparison."

"I'll go peek in."

The door was wide open. Fran was sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing solitaire the old fashioned way—with cards. She glanced up as I walked in. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. You have a good nap?"

"I guess."

I grabbed the straight-backed chair from the dressing table and straddled it, resting my folded arms on the back. "We're ordering Chinese from the Happy Dragon. What would you like? They've got a huge menu, pretty much anything you could want."

She shook her head slightly. "Thanks. But—I'm not really hungry."

"So… you've decided to spend the week here and then fly back instead of taking the train?"

She looked at me, confused. "No—who told you that?"

"Who told me? I told myself. Because if you keep on not eating, Ducky isn't going to let you out of the house. He promised Dr. Webber that he'd keep an eye on you—and he will. Cal or your dad will have to fly out and escort you home." I shrugged. "Or maybe he'll ask me to do it. Hey, I wouldn't mind seeing Phil and Jackie again…"

"No—"

"Yes," I said firmly. I propped my chin on my crossed arms. "Okay. I know you're depressed. I don't blame you. You're had a couple of topsy-turvy weeks and the end was a peak I hope you don't surpass for your entire life. Well—maybe if it's a movie you're working on," I amended. "Do you remember what you said after Alyce trashed your room?"

She thought for a moment, then gave a little "huh" of a laugh. "No, not really." She frowned. "I wonder what she was looking for…?"

"Who knows. Maybe it will come out in the trial." She flinched; I guess she forgot about the wheels of justice having to grind their way forward, figuring Alyce would magically transport from arraignment to a cell for the rest of her life. "You said something about not wanting to wear the clothes again. Then you decided if you didn't, it would be like she 'won' twice." I stared at her with what Ducky calls my laser beam eyes. "Don't let her win. Remember what they say—living well is the best revenge."

A smile flickered, then faded. "How? Every time I turn around… I know it's incredibly juvenile and pre-pubescent, but I can't help but think, 'I never asked to be born.'"

"No, you didn't. But you're here, so make the best of it."

"I know, I know…"

"Don't make me go all Jimmy Stewart and _It's a Wonderful Life_ on your ass," I threatened.

She laughed—small, but a real laugh. "On my _ass_? No, I just…" He voice drifted off into a sigh. "I can't help but think if I _hadn't_ been born, how different it would be."

I've run into this argument on abortion debate boards. "Well… if you hadn't been born, you wouldn't have existed for us to know about you and miss having you around. That's like me saying I miss my little sister. I never _had_ a little sister. I never even came _close_ to having a little sister. But it doesn't stop me from wishing I'd had one. Mostly to catch the blame when I did something wrong."

Fran laughed again, a genuine ha-ha laugh. "But…" She looked kind of frustrated. "My mother has been in an institution for two-thirds of my life. Someone I'd never even _met_ hated me so much that she tried to kill me and ended up almost killing someone else, a totally innocent person who barely knew I existed—"

"And that is totally not _your_ fault. Okay. Example. Supposedly, years ago, this kid got into D&D and had a live-action game going on in the tunnels under Michigan University, ended up committing suicide over it. I remember it because Rona Jaffe wrote a really lame book that was loosely based on the case. Turns out it wasn't true, but either way—D&D didn't make that kid kill himself any more than losing a game of Monopoly would. D&D wasn't at fault. Neither are you."

"My rational mind understands that, but—"

"Then stop right there and listen to your rational mind." I pointed a finger at her. "Alyce is a doofus." She laughed. "And a nutter. Not crazy, in my opinion, so they'd better not try for an insanity plea." The cops had decided my input didn't need a trip to the station and took my statement over the phone. I tried to sound neutral and non-hysterical but managed to slant things heavily against Alyce. Wasn't hard. "Some people are just wired wrong. And I'm sure as hell not trying to give Alyce an insanity defense—but, face it, to pull a gun on someone when you aren't defending your life or immediate threat to your property, well, your fuses aren't fully in their sockets. Personally, I think she knew about you since way back when and she was bitch enough to keep you and Cameron apart." I had zero proof on this theory—and it even went opposite of what she had said. So, okay, maybe I was painting her with a damning brush.

"I wonder what would have happened if we had known each other." She sighed sadly. "It really, really hurts that I missed all that time with Maxine. With my _grandmother_," she clarified.

"Well." I rubbed my nose. "You did know her. Sounds like you spent a lot of time with her. You just didn't spend time with her as 'grandmother.'"

"But all those wasted years—"

"She had a stroke. Right before your mom—got worse."

"Yeah—"

"Maxine's IMDb bio glossed over those years. I had to do some archive reading in Variety and the L.A. Times, mostly, to get some snippets. She was lucky she survived. She was sitting out by the pool with one of the tenants. He noticed her speech was slurring and her coordination was turning into nothing and called 911. Saved her life. She got her speech and her mobility back over a couple of years, but she still had big memory gaps until she died."

"I guess I'm lucky she remembered me at all."

"Those pictures you gave Ducky? There was one that I just love. It's just you and Maxine, you were barely toddling age—"

She nodded. "I know the one you mean. I was standing up, holding her fingers. She was bent over, her necklaces were hanging down, I'm surprised I didn't reach up and yank them off her neck."

"You probably did after the picture was taken." She laughed in agreement. "But think of the look on her face. She loved you like crazy. And when her memory _did_ come back, you were part that returned."

"But I lost those years—"

"Kiddo, I've got some relatives I've never even _met._ I don't mean fifth cousins three times removed. My dad has two sisters and two brothers. So on his side of the family, I have two aunts and two uncles and I've never met any of them."

She looked startled. "Never?"

"Nope. One was a career Navy man. He retired, lives on Guam. We—meaning dad—get a Christmas card each year. The other brother is what you would call a recluse. Lives in a little town beyond the back of beyond in Oregon. No phone, no computer, mostly lives off the land. I think he goes into town once a month. He writes books and articles on woodworking—basically we know he's alive if we see something published. Dad will get a letter back from Uncle Al—if he's written ten or twelve, first. One aunt had a really ugly falling out with my grandparents, she ran away from home at sixteen or so. The only contact has been a couple of newspaper clippings she mailed—her wedding announcement and birth announcements for two kids." I thought for a moment. "Three. And the last aunt is one of those crazy busy people whose letters start off, 'Oh, my, has it really been six years?'"

"Yeah…" She sighed. "If I'd been adopted—well, the regular way—I'd be wondering about a ton of family members I'd _never_ met."

I propped my elbows on the chair back and cupped my chin in my hands. "Exactly. And you've got a good family. I'm thinking every Pollyanna thought I can for your mom, your dad sounds like an amazingly cool guy—"

She grinned. "He is."

"You got aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?"

"Grandfathers, Peterson, Carpenter and McMillan. Grandmothers. McMillan and Carpenter. Dad's parents divorced and his mom remarried," she explained. "Mom was an only child, but Dad is middle of seven."

"Yeowch!"

"Some of them are in California…"

"So you've got grandparents, uncles, aunts—cousins?" She nodded. "And your new extended family, Ducky, _his_ mother—and let's not forget marvelous _me_."

She laughed. "Definitely not." She looked quite a bit perkier.

"So. Dinner?"

She considered it. "Yeah. Dinner."

"Cool. What do you want me to bring in from the van?"

"Oh, you don't have to—"

I mimed having a gimpy arm. "Hello?"

"Oh. Yeah." She made a face. "I hate having people have to wait on me, hand and foot."

"Honey, you're on your own for dinner. Not cutting up your sweet and sour pork."

She snickered. "Aw, gee, no? Okay… I should probably charge my laptop battery and the phone. And I need a nightshirt. And clothes for tomorrow."

"Happy Bunny?" I suggested.

"Ye gods, I totally forgot I packed that. I would have died from embarrassment wearing that around Agent Gibbs." She launched herself off the bed, managing the feat one-handed.

"Oh, kiddo, he's seen worse when I drop in to see Ducky." I rested a hand on her shoulder as we left the room. "Let's see… _Don't try to outweird me, I get stranger things than you in my breakfast cereal… I'm not deaf, I'm ignoring you… Yet, despite the look on my face, you are STILL TALKING!_… and the classic, _Sorry if I hurt your feelings, I was aiming for your balls_."

She gasped loudly. "You wore that? In front of him?"

"Heck, yeah." I grinned. "Actually, I forgot I was wearing it. He didn't say anything 'til I was leaving, then said, 'By the way, you didn't hurt my feelings, either.' I looked in the reflection on the elevator door and turned ten shades of red. And laughed. But he laughed the hardest."

/ / /

Aaaah. Happy Dragon.

Dinner was delicious.

It was also interrupted no fewer than seven times by calls from assorted media vultures. _The New York Post_. _The L.A. Times_. ZNN. E! (Ducky threatened to pull the phone out of the wall.) Each time I answered the pone with my Polly Perky voice and promised to give the good doctor the message. And I did. "Carla Goodrich. _New York Post_. Forgot to write down the number." "I can't pronounce her first name, last name sounded like Western, E! channel and—oh, darn, I forgot to write down the number." Ducky played along, patting my hand and saying, "That's all right. You'll get it next time." On the off chance it was someone important calling, we opted for live versus Memorex. My overacting made Fran and Suzy laugh, but Victoria was scandalized over the number of phone calls.

"Really, Donald! Can't you tell your school chums to please not call during the dinner hour?"

"I'll remind them, Mother."

After dinner, we adjourned to the living room where Victoria settled herself in front of the computer and the rest of us pulled out the double-twelve dominos. Fran watched for one round to familiarize herself with our weird version of play (it's easier than the girls' version of croquet), asking occasional questions. "Okay, I got that you played a ten-three against a seven. Ten minus three is seven. Twelve-two against a double six?"

"Ah, but twelve _divided_ by two is six," Ducky explained. "If you can make a math equation from the two tiles—the end facing out and the two attaching, or all four squares—you can play it."

"Ah…" she said in understanding. She watched the play continue. "I can understand getting bored with regular dominoes," she said distractedly. "We ended up with strip dominoes once…"

Ducky and I exchanged probably identical looks of amusement and turned as one to look at Fran.

"Um, I mean—I've heard it's fun," she said quickly.

"Uh-huh." I gave her a wink.

She watched for another few minutes, her blush fading. "Okay, that makes _no_ sense to me."

Ducky smiled. "Cassandra played a four-ten."

"And you played two-five."

"Two-point-five times four—"

"Is ten," Fran and I said in unison. "This is harder than I thought!" she added.

"It pays to keep your wits around Ducky." (Although the times I've been witless, it's bee fun, too. Just a different kind of, um, fun.)

"I hate to think how you play poker."

Ducky grinned. "Oh, but that's quite entertaining—"

"So," I said, neatly interrupting him before he could spill the beans, "you want another soda? Ducky, you want a fresh drink?" Fran indicated her can was still quite full.

"Thank you, dear. Scotch. Neat." From the twinkle in his eye, I was sure he was thinking of the last poker game. So was I.

"Suzy?"

"Hey, if you're playing barmaid—I'm off the clock, so…" She thought for a moment. "What do you charge for a Russian Sunrise?"

"We can put it on your tab." Figuring we would need extra hands in the morning, Suzy had pulled Ducky aside and volunteered to stay the night, choosing to doss down on the couch since Fran was already in the spare room. I'm with Ducky—I keep worrying that I'll wake up and find she's just a dream and No-Nonsense Neoma is still in residence. (_Mental post-it: call John Mulder this week_.)

Suzy abandoned her book and joined us at the coffee table. Figuring the news would break soon, we took the pause between games to bring her up to speed _vis a vis_ Fran, Alyce, Cameron—and Maxine.

Fran managed a smile. "I guess this is a good rehearsal for when I have to face the press. Get some practice with friendly fire before I face the wolves."

"We'll sic the dogs on 'em," I promised.

Ducky's photo albums were still on the end table, along with the box Fran had given him. Suzy was flipping through them, paying more attention than she had the other day when I was playing detective. "You definitely have his eyes—but I think you're going to look like your grandmother later on. You have her bone structure, for sure."

"She looks great. I don't mind if I do."

"Ohhh…" Suzy had the goofy look people get over cute baby pictures. "You were an adorable baby!"

"Yes, she was."

As one we turned to look at the far corner of the room, where Victoria was still messaging on the computer. "I'm sorry, Mother. _Whom_ are you talking about?" Ducky asked cautiously.

She looked at him as though he were dense. "Francesca, of course. Mary's little girl. Such as sweet baby." She turned back to her computer.

Only Fran didn't look totally stunned, probably because she didn't know Victoria very well. "Did she ever meet—" I whispered.

Ducky frowned. "Come to think of it—yes. Yes, she did, quite a few times. I still stopped over after I moved out and she often joined me. It never occurred to me she'd remember…"

Suzy shrugged. "Memory is a funny thing," she said quietly.

"I'm not laughing," Ducky said drily.

Fran got up from her place on the floor and walked over to Victoria. "You remember me? As a baby?"

Victoria's look was plainly, 'of course I do.' But her voice was kind. "Mary was such a beautiful girl." She gave me a fond look. "She reminds me of my dear Cassandra."

Holy crap. Maybe she _did_ remember. Granted, Mary and I look as much alike as—well, my van and Ducky's Morgan. But there's more of a resemblance than, say, Ducky and _I_, rather than our vehicles. Short. Redheads (at least back in the day). Similar facial structure.

"Your grandmother was such a darling woman." Victoria patted Fran's cheek.

I dropped the dominoes I was pulling for the new game. (Ducky _almost_ dropped his Scotch.) "Grandmother?" I echoed.

"She was in St. Monica's Guild. A wonderful seamstress."

With those fingernails? I'm impressed.

"Mother, we _lived_ in _Santa Monica_," Ducky corrected with a gentle firmness.

She turned and gave him a scornful look. "I know that, Donald. Ten-sixty-one Chelsea Court." (That didn't surprise me. If you ask my mother for her phone number, she'll give you the one from when we lived on Bentwood Avenue, back when I was in grade school. Then she'll give you the next four numbers and finally work up to the one they've had for the past fifteen years.) "And we attended Saint Augustine. As did dear Maxine. I did so miss her when we moved," she said sadly.

Ducky and I stared at each other. "Well, _I_ wasn't in St. Monica's Guild," he muttered.

I snickered. Just the mental image of Ducky sitting in a sewing circle making gifty things for the fall bazaar… Too much.

"Mrs. Mallard?"

Victoria looked away from her computer. "Yes, dear?"

"What do you remember about my grandmother? How—how did you know she _was_ my grandmother?"

Victoria looked amused. "Why, she told me, of course."

Of course.

"Charlotte—Charlotte asked me to be her grandmother." She looked at Fran shyly.

"Would you like to be my grandmother, too?"

Victoria looked delighted, then hesitated. "I shouldn't like to usurp Maxine's position," she said almost formally.

"Grandmother passed away last year, Mrs. Mallard."

She gave Fran the smile that makes Tony DiNozzo sigh and rearrange furniture all night. "My other girls call me Grandma."

Fran grinned. "Grandma it is."

"Oh, you look so much like my Lily when you smile!"

Hmm. Lily's only a year or two older than Fran. Could Cameron—no, no, let's not go down that path.

"Charlotte has to work on her diorama for history. Would you like to watch wrestling with me?"

"I'd love to."

Victoria rose carefully from her chair, then stopped and cocked her head. "What… _is_ a diorama?"

While Fran tried to explain a diorama (she was the most recent grade school student, albeit twenty years ago or so) we popped the most recent video tape in the machine and dragged out a big bowl of popcorn to complete the picture.

"I'm surprised Maxine told Mother the truth," Ducky murmured, playing a 2/2 against my 4/6.

"Maxine probably figured Victoria already knew—being your mother and all," Suzy suggested, playing a double one.

"Well, I'm glad." Fran swiveled back and set down a 12/11 tile and turned back to 'Grandma' and the wrestling match.

"I wish she remembered more," I said. 7/6.

"More often it's the contradiction of memory versus fantasy," Ducky said.

"Sometimes," Suzy said. "She remembers more than you think."

Ducky took the gentle chide with grace. "She seems to be, of late." He gave me a teasing smile. "I blame Cassandra." 3/3.

I stuck my tongue out at him and almost jumped Suzy's turn. (And Fran's.)

"Promised, promises…" Suzy said mildly. "What?" she laughed at our looks. "We're all adults." 9/3.

Even the one turning beet red and trying to concentrate _very_ hard on the match. Fortunately Victoria heard nothing.

"You've been paying too much attention to Cassandra's comments."

"I was going to say she's been paying too much attention to _yours_."

"Oh, lordy, do I have to have another 'facts of life' discussion?" Suzy sighed, giving us a patient look. But there was a wicked sparkle in her eye.

"_Another_?" Fran blurted. "Oops." She pulled several tiles, then played a 1/8.

"My grandkids discovered that the old lady didn't freak out over 'the talk' the way their parents did." She cocked her head. "Do I need to—"

"Nooooo," I drew out sweetly. "And…I'm out."

Fran frowned at my tile. "Twelve-five?"

"Twelve minus eight, plus one—" The doorbell rang. "Is five," I ended.

"I hope that's not another news crew," Fran sighed.

"At eight-thirty? I should hope not," Ducky said. He kept his tone light for Fran, but the glance he shot me was plenty pissed.

"I'll kick their collective asses to the curb," I said cheerfully, scrambling to my feet.

Only one person stood on the porch, at the edge of the light, only the lower half of his body well-lit. If there were any news vans, they were out on the street and hidden from view; promising, but he could still be print media…

"Is this the Mallard residence?" He actually pronounced it correctly, ac'_cent_ on the second syl'_la_'ble; most people say _Mal_lard, even Ducky's longtime friends and coworkers.

"Yes. May I help you?" I kept it short and sweet, but civil.

"May I speak with Dr. Mallard?"

"I'm sorry. Dr. Mallard is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?" (And then lose it?)

"I'd prefer to talk in person. I promise it won't take long."

"I'm sorry." (_You have reached a recorded announcement_…) "Dr. Mallard is not giving any interviews. You'll need to contact him through NCIS," I said firmly.

"No interviews? Good."

Good? That stopped me in mid-motion of shutting the door. "May I give him a message?' I offered again.

"I'm a friend—well—an acquaintance," he corrected. "From several years ago." The small laugh was uncomfortably familiar.

Oh, shit.

I knew who it was even as he stepped into the light and announced quietly, "Cameron Carson."

I hope he didn't take my silence for stunned adoration. Only half of that was right. "Uh—just a moment, please." I turned from the door. From the angle I was at, I could see Ducky, he could see me, but neither Ducky nor Cameron could see each other. Ducky looked at me, puzzled. I finger spelled C-A-M-E-R-O-N over and over, blessing Abby for suggesting we take an Intro to Sign Language class the prior spring.

Ducky looked baffled; from that distance, it was probably hard to decipher. I spelled over and over as he approached; about halfway to me, he stopped, shocked. "Cameron?" he mouthed. I clenched my fist and wagged it up and down: _yes._

He squared his shoulders and joined me at the door. "Yes?" He was curt almost to the point of rudeness, a first.

"Hey, Don." He was smart enough not to go for a big, easy grin and jovial tone. "It's been a long time."

"Yes." _But not long enough…_

"I—ah—I ditched the reporters at the hotel. I probably should have called," he admitted. Yeah, you probably should have. "But I was afraid you might hang up on me." (We call that 'accidentally disconnected,' dear.) "I promise. I won't take much time."

"Let's—talk outside," Ducky said reluctantly. I knew he was thinking of Fran, only a room away. "I don't think—"

"Ducky?" Fran called. Her voice was higher pitched than normal; Ducky froze. "It's all right. Please. Invite—invite Mr. Carson in."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fran kneeling by the coffee table as before, her back now ramrod straight. Victoria had turned toward us, looking more confused than usual and resting her hand on Fran's free shoulder. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but like most people she could tell when Something Bad was in the air. Suzy was staring at the dominos game, trying to ignore everyone and everything.

Cameron looked at us expectantly. I wanted to be pissed at him for not recognizing his daughter's voice—but, really, why would he?

"Please. Come in," Ducky said, reflexively polite.

I shut the door, praying, _please, no bloodshed?_

I heard Cameron suck in his breath as soon as he saw Fran and heard a soft, "Oh, Fran…" She didn't even twitch.

Ducky breached the gap, squatting down so he was closer to eye level with her. "Why don't we give you some pri—"

"Please. Don't," she interrupted. "I'd rather you stay. _All_ of you."

I was more than willing. I wanted to make sure that if she blew her cool she didn't pop her other arm taking a swing at him. I took my seat back on the floor, right angle to her.

"Fran, I—" He broke off with a gasp as she turned and her arm in a sling was more apparent. "Oh, god, Fran, I am so sorry—"

A week ago Fran walked through this very room, hoping to meet her birth father. _Be careful what you wish for._ He quickly crossed toward her and she shrank back.

"Don't worry, my dear, we shall protect you." Victoria—tiny, frail, scramble-brained Victoria—patted her shoulder. The dogs, dozing by the cold fireplace, heard her voice and came a-running, looking at Cameron with great interest.

He didn't fry _all_ of his brains on booze and drugs; he stopped dead in his tracks. "Fran, I—I never knew," he said cautiously.

She nodded slowly. "I know." Her voice was very even.

"I would have wanted—I mean—" His laugh was short and a little forced. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be here, I wasn't expecting—but I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Don always kept an eye on your mother—"

Oooh. Bad call. Fran turned her face away; the glimpse I saw of her eyes before her gaze dropped did not show a kind and gentle look.

"Francis!"

We all turned at Victoria's shocked cry. Francis—yeah, that _was_ his given name.

Cameron gave her a faint smile. "Nobody's called me that for—wow, forty, forty-five years."

"Your mother—she had your photograph on her piano." He fidgeted slightly. Zing. "You look just like your photograph." She stared at him intensely. "Except older. And grayer. And a bit fatter."

_Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Oh, god, don't laugh_. I'm sure I was visibly twitching to hold control. BIG zing.

Victoria looked at him, anguished. "You—you broke your mother's heart!" Her voice held the wounded accents only a fellow mother can achieve.

He looked ashamed. (I hope to hell he wasn't acting.) "Yes. I did. I was young and I did many stupid things to hurt my mother. I paid dearly for that, but the worst was losing my mother for all those years—and finally losing her forever."

"And, dear, sweet Mary!" She was actually trembling with rage. I was starting to get a little scared; the woman is going to hit a hundred next spring and, while the doctors say she's in amazingly good health, too much stress for _anyone_ is not a good thing.

Fran reached up and patted Victoria's hand. "It's okay," she said soothingly. "It's okay. Mom did just _fine_ without him." (He flinched slightly. Good. _Think of the t-shirt; aim for the balls, honey_.) "He may have broken her heart—but he didn't break her spirit. Not at first, anyway," she added bitterly. "My mom _and dad_," she said with particular emphasis, "met while making a picture together. And my dad is the most amazing person you could ever meet. He can choreo a fight scene like nobody else, he's the best stunt driver on the road and he even learned to fence for the remake of _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ and he's darn good, too. _My dad_ is smart and talented and makes blueberry waffles from scratch _every Sunday._ He showed up for _every_ _single_ school play and concert and game, even if I just wanted to go and wasn't playing or singing or anything! When mom was gone he was the cookie chairman every year I was in Scouts, he taught me how to ride a skateboard, he puts together the most incredible haunted houses—" Like the week before, she was gathering steam and losing track—and control. "He cracks bad puns and collects Little Orphan Annie junk and he calls me Pixilated and when Mom first went away he got me the kitten I'd been begging for for years, even though he's allergic as hell and he visits my mother at the hospital _all the time_ and I love him to pieces and he has _never_ turned away from _either_ of us—" She pulled away from Victoria and scrambled to her feet and spun around to face Cameron, never missing a beat. "And Maxine kept your secret because Mom asked her to and when she had a stroke it sent Mom into oblivion and _you and your wife_—" She was screaming now. "—freaked her out so badly we almost lost her forever and I don't know _what_ the hell you said, I don't know _what_ the hell _she_ said but your whacked out wife tried to kill me and she's so _stupid_ she shot someone else and she doesn't even think she did anything wrong and I wish, I wish, I _wish_ I had never tried to look for you in the first place!" She burst into tears and plopped onto the floor.

Cameron stepped forward, probably on reflex. When he touched her shoulder, she pulled back.

"_Don't touch me!_" she shrieked. "I _hate_ you!"

_**SMACK**__!_

As slaps go, it wasn't a big one. It probably wasn't very hard, even. And the follow-through on the swing had Victoria clutching the back of her chair and swaying. But there was a bright pink mark on the cheek of a very shocked Cameron Carson. "You hurt your mother." She almost growled her words (she sounded a lot like Tyson). "You hurt Mary. You hurt my Francesca. And you hurt my Lily. _You_!" She poked her finger into his chest and he drew back. "Are a _very bad man_!"

It was comical, in a way. But nobody was laughing.

Fran was shocked into near silence. She worked at catching her breath, looking from Cameron to Victoria and back again. I scooched a little closer and put my arm around her and she leaned into me. Victoria was collecting granddaughters; I was collecting kid sisters.

Cameron stared at Victoria for a long moment, impassive. "Yes. I am," he finally said, barely audible. Keeping a weather eye on Victoria (who looked ready to wallop him again) he walked behind the sofa so he was sort of face to face with Fran again. She turned away, staring past me toward Ducky's office area.

Wow. Ignoring the different expressions—lowering fury versus careful control—there was a lot of familiarity there. Great, big, dark brown eyes. Dark brown hair—well, brown and gray for Cameron. His strong features softened in her face—but there was a definite link. Only a fool would miss it.

"Fran—I never knew."

She turned and gave him full measure of her face. She was back in control—which was probably worse. "You were sleeping with Alyce and my mother at the same time," she said coldly. He didn't confirm or deny. He didn't have to. He turned a slow brick red, glancing around quickly and then dropping his gaze to the floor. "I did the math. I figure Mom was about two months pregnant with me when you and Alyce spent a zillion dollars getting hitched. And, wow, that was before you started raking in the dough. Good thing she had a tidy sum from strutting her…_assets_…down the runway. And didn't Vera Wang loan her the wedding gown in exchange for publicity? No, that's right, that was for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary bash. It was Oscar de la Renta when she walked down the aisle." Hmm; somebody had been doing some research on her own.

"This doesn't excuse anything, but—" His voice was very even and he spoke carefully, measuring his words. "People bounced from relationship to relationship. Nowadays they call it 'hooking up.' I never thought—Mary never—" he fumbled.

"What was she going to say? 'Congratulations on your marriage. I got you a baby for a wedding gift?'"

"Fran, I—"

She sighed heavily. "I'm not mad about what happened. Well—not much. What happened… happened." Oh, yeah, the girl is definitely a better actor than he is. I could feel the tension radiating from her. "It's what happened _now_—"

He visibly flinched. "I—we can't—Alyce's lawyer—" He was all but choking on the words.

"Hey, we're all off the record," I couldn't help saying.

His was the face of a man at war with himself. "Alyce—knew about you."

Fran glanced from the bandage visible beneath her shirt to him; no shit, Sherlock.

"She never told me. But she knew I had been seeing Mary—"

I remembered Alyce's tell-all at the hotel and bit my lip to keep from saying anything.

"I changed my name when I decided to go into the business. I was so determined to make it on my own—I didn't want anyone giving me any breaks because of who my mother was. Plus I, ah, really didn't like the name Francis. But—after we were married, Alyce went to visit Mother… without telling me… to see if she could patch things up between us. Mother had raked me over the coals while I was seeing Mary, telling me she wasn't like other girls, that this meant more to her. And when I, ah, broke it off with her—"

'Dumped her' was probably closer to the truth.

"—and married Alyce—" He glanced at Victoria, probably making sure he was out of range. "Well—I can see why you got along so well. She told me to call her _if_ I ever grew up—but not before. Pissed me off." He shook his head. "I called her about four months later. She wouldn't even talk to me. Hung up on me. Slammed the phone down, actually. When Alyce went to talk to her—well, _Sword of Time_ had been released, the reviews were great but I was still struggling to get auditions. Alyce figured that Mother had contacts all through the industry, that she could sweet-talk her into helping her 'only son'—" He let out a deep breath. "Before she found Mother, she saw Mary." He looked at Fran hesitantly. "And you." His mouth twitched in a vain attempt at a smile. "She, ah, as you put it, did the math. Mother came out to the pool…" He stared off for a moment and shook his head slightly. "I'm sure Mother figured Alyce would tell me—which she didn't, not until this morning. But when I didn't act as Mother thought I should have, she cut me from her life completely. Oh, Fran—" He looked at her imploringly. "If I had known, I swear—"

Fran sighed, but didn't say anything. But she didn't look quite so pissed off. Her mother had kept the secret because she wanted Fran to have, as her dad put it, a 'normal' life. Her grandmother kept the secret because Mary asked her to—and she probably felt it was for the best. And Alyce kept the secret because she was a selfish bitch. In my opinion.

"Alyce—well, now I understand _why_, but—back then, she was desperate to have a baby. I would have been fine if we did—but we didn't, and I was fine with that, too. But Alyce was crazed about it. She still had a big career in modeling, she never really made it in films—"

(Maybe her lack of talent had something to do with that?)

"I kept telling her getting pregnant would pretty much end it for her. She didn't care, she wanted to get pregnant and she would stop at nothing to do it. She tried everything, spent a fortune on doctors, drugs, surgeries, in vitro attempts—"

(Um, Cameron? TMI. _Way_ T-T-TMI.)

"Nothing worked. She couldn't have children, period. I guess—she—wanted to be on even footing. With Mary. That she was scared it would come out and I'd go back to Mary. It wasn't until Mother had her stroke—and I guess she felt the secret would stay hidden—that she stopped harping about having children."

I stared down at the carpet. I hated—_really_ hated—being put on the same line as Alyce. But hadn't I had those same fears about Ducky only a week ago, that he'd leave me and go back to be a father?

_Yeah—but I didn't go big game hunting urban-style._ Some consolation, anyway.

But it was interesting. Alyce was so hacked off that nobody had told her poor li'l hubby about his daughter—but _she_ had known all along. Looks like she was a pretty good improv actress. I was kind of sad to see my suspicions confirmed, though.

"I saw Mother often while she recovered. It didn't matter that she had kicked me out of her life—she was my _mother_, for god's sake."

Ducky and I exchanged a quick glance. Victoria hasn't written him out of the will, so to speak, but there were plenty of times she could be, um, a trial. But no matter what, Ducky would _never _abandon her. And neither would I.

"When she began to recover—oh, it took months with a speech therapist, but one of the things I could understand that she kept saying was 'baby.' I kept telling her each time that, no, Alyce and I hadn't had a baby. This went on for months. She was getting more and more frustrated with me not understanding. Finally she got so mad, she threw her tea at me. Drenched me in tea and the mug bounced off and shattered on the floor. It was her Cheshire cat mug, the one where the heat made the cat disappear and leave behind the smile—" He shook his head. "Sorry. You remember the stupidest details sometimes…" He sighed, his eyes roving over us in turn. Fran stared back, still hurt and angry, but letting him talk. Ducky's face was impassive, like when I'd worked through the clues leading up to who Fran's father _really_ was: listening to all the information before coming to a conclusion. Suzy hadn't stopped staring at the coffee table, seemingly entranced with the dominos. Victoria looked pissed as ever, but confused; I think she was starting to forget _why_ she was angry.

And me? I was still sorry for Fran. Totally. But I genuinely felt some sympathy for Cameron. If Alyce had told him what she had discovered almost 30 years ago—well, we wouldn't be in the situation we were in. Mary and Maxine did what they did by trying to do the right thing; Alyce probably did, too—but it was 'do the right thing—for myself' as opposed to someone else. Like Fran, some of the crap going on in his life was from the choices other people had made. Granted it all started from _his_ choice to dump Mary and go off with Alyce. But if that's a capitol offense, overpopulation will cease to be a problem.

Cameron's gaze completed the off-center circle and came back to rest on Fran. "The next time I came to visit… I barely got through the door. This time it was van Gogh's _Starry Night_. And she yelled, very distinctly, 'I hope you burn in hell!' Her speech therapist was ecstatic, she was clear as a bell. I figured it was a case of her personality being altered from the stroke, so I gave her some space, as it were. I sent her cards and little gifts—and about a year later, one came back from the rehab center marked 'discharged.' I rewrapped it, sent it to the apartment complex… and it came back, 'return to sender.'

Ouch.

He stared at Fran a long time. "I had no clue until now—she was trying to talk to me about _you._ Probably figured I was ignoring her on purpose. I—I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. It doesn't change what happened. I don't expect you to do an about-face and—and invite me to Sunday dinner. And _nothing_ I can ever do or say will erase what Alyce did. You have a great family, a great dad, and I am so glad for you for that. I don't want to replace anyone. There's no way I _could_, even if I wanted to try. I don't want to horn in, to force myself into your world. Whatever you decide—and whenever you decide it—I'll stand by your choices. No question. No argument."

After a long moment, Fran asked, "What did you say? When you saw Mom?"

He looked uncertain. "That… I'd heard she hadn't been well. That I was sorry to hear that. That I hoped she got better soon. And… that… a long time ago, I hurt her very deeply… and that I was very, very sorry. She… never answered me."

"She hasn't spoken in almost twenty years," Fran said, voice still flat.

"That's what the nurse said."

_Until last night, anyway_.

"I thought it might draw her out to talk about her artwork—oh, Fran, all those pictures of you, the photos on her dresser, the moment I saw them all, I knew…"

He trailed off. Except for the manic insanity from the TV, the room was quiet.

"Well. Um. I should probably get going…"

Ducky had been silent the whole time, standing off to the side, arms folded. Cameron stopped as he headed toward the door. "They said—" He swallowed, hard. "They said your daughter was shot mistakenly for Fran." His voice quavered.

"Not my daughter," Ducky said. "But she could well have been." His voice was low and gravelly.

"I'm so sorry." Cameron looked absolutely haunted. If he didn't go off the wagon, I'd be shocked. (Actually, I'd be impressed.)

"Excuse me… do I know you, young man?"

Cameron rallied, and gave Victoria a very kind smile. "Not for a long time, Mrs. Mallard. You knew my mother many years ago."

"Oh!" She looked around the room. "Is she here?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry, she passed away a year ago."

"Oh…" she sighed. "That's happened to so many of my friends," she said sadly. The TV caught her eye; distracted, she sat down and was again engrossed in the match.

That earned him a small smile from Ducky. He may get exasperated with his mother, but he loves her to the ends of the earth. The walked toward the doorway, Cameron looking slightly less like a whipped dog than he had a few moments ago.

"We worked together."

Cameron stopped and looked back at Fran uncertainly. "I'm sorry…?"

"We worked together. Once. I did your appliances. _Horror at the Wax Museum, Terror at the Wax Museum—Something at the Wax Museum._ It was one of my first. Films, I mean."

Holy guacamole, Batman. I wanted to smack my forehead. I could picture her IMDb page perfectly. The few pictures of her working on Cameron Carson. The right questions and he would have known all of this a decade ago.

"_Night at the Wax Museum,_" he corrected almost automatically. "I remember. You have a very light touch." He looked at her hesitantly, hopefully.

Fran flickered a small smile. "Thanks."

Okay, as big, lovey-dovey Hallmark moments go, it was about .25 on a scale of 0 to 10. But the girl gets huge props for making any kind of olive branch maneuver, in my opinion. The man caused a lot of chaos in her life and his wife tried to kill her, for god's sake. If they end up exchanging neutrally worded Christmas cards they deserve a Nobel peace prize.

(Of course, if Alyce is stuck behind bars for a few decades that will help.)

Ducky continued escorting Cameron from the house. Fran began to turn the domino tiles over. "Another game?"

I stopped cold and turned to her, trying not to goggle. She was _way_ calmer than I would have been.

She looked up at me and managed a smile. "A very smart lady recently told me 'living well is the best revenge.'" I bit back a laugh; at least she had been listening earlier. "Sounds like a plan to me." She still looked ultra-stressed; her blood pressure was probably sky high. "I used to listen to this radio shrink—actually, it was a husband and wife team," she amended, seeing me wince slightly. "Not—" she made a distasteful look and waggled her good hand. "They were good—really good—so, of course, they're off the air. But they had a brilliant piece of wisdom." She looked at me very seriously. "Act as if—and the feelings will follow." She let me chew on it for a moment. "I honestly don't _want_ to hate him. Hate takes too much energy. If I can be civil at least… maybe…" She trailed off uncertainly.

I squatted next to her and leaned close. "You aren't pixilated," I said quietly. "_You_ are _amazing._"

Her eyes were suspiciously damp and her smile a little tremulous. "Hope you still feel that way when my meds wear off."

/ / /

"Could I ask… a favor?"

I looked up from half-heartedly following _West Side Story_. Fran stood uncertainly at the edge of the room, clad in an oversized nightshirt with a picture from _Pirates of the Caribbean_ on the front. "Sure. What's up?"

"Well, I got my hair brushed—but with one hand, that's all I could do. I'd really rather not hassle with it for the whole trip—I was thinking if tomorrow you could maybe put it in really tight braids, I could ignore it all the way to California…?"

"Sure. Why don't we call tonight a test run? If it looks okay after a night's sleep, I can re-braid it fresh before you leave tomorrow night."

"Oh, Sandy, that would be great. Thanks." She handed me her hairbrush and perched on the footstool in front of me.

Remembering how _West Side Story_ ends, I clicked the remote for something a little cheerier. _Escape From the Planet of the Apes_? Noooooo, not another romance that dies in a hail of gunfire.

"Oh, I have a friend who worked on that. It sounds like a great movie."

I looked at the screen; I had landed on Family Channel, a special showing the making of Rata_t_ouille and snippets from projects in the works. "_Ratatouille_? Haven't seen it, but it looks cute." What the heck, I could live with that on the TV. I started dividing her hair.

"Very homey," Ducky laughed, coming into the room and sitting on the couch next to me. "I didn't realize you could braid hair."

"Please. I've had my hair in a braid plenty of times."

"Not like _that_," he said, watching me work.

Even in a smidge of a profile, I could see the wistful look on Fran's face. "My mother used to do this all the time. She'd twist in ribbons or embroidery thread or tuck flowers in when she was done…"

"I did that for my nieces all the time. Sharon was a real squirmer. Almost had to tie her to the chair. Allie was Miss My Braids Must Be _Exactly_ the Same Thickness and Length. Drove her Aunt Cass bananas." Left, right, left, right, add a bit in each pass… "Evvie talked me into helping out at a Ren Fair booth one year, Braids For Maids? By the end of the day, my hands were so cramped I couldn't get them around her throat to throttle her." I jumped a little at the hand on my shoulder; I hadn't heard Victoria come up behind us. "Yes, Mother?"

A pair of shears appeared over my shoulder; in her shaking hands, that can give you pause. My hands were both occupied, so Ducky took them and placed them on the table. "Ah, thank you, Mother."

She made a "tsk" noise. "Silly boy." She handed him a spool of ribbon. "I thought this might look pretty in her hair," she said shyly.

Fran strained to look without moving under my hands. "Oh, how pretty!" It was variegated rainbow with gold edges.

Victoria tipped her head, watching me unbraid the short bit I had accomplished. "I used to plait my sisters' hair," she sighed. "We would all three sit in a circle in the playroom, each one plaiting the other's hair…"

"Bonding experience," Ducky said with a smile.

"Oh, pooh, Donald, you used to love it when I brushed your beautiful golden curls."

Ducky winced visibly and even blushed. I bit my lip and concentrated on cutting lengths of ribbon.

"Most children enjoy having their hair brushed," Suzy said mildly from her perch on a wingback chair. She had her feet up on an ottoman, knees bent, and was deep into an Alfred Hitchcock anthology she had braced against her legs. "Until the first time you hit a tangle, anyway."

"Well, I _always_ loved having my hair brushed," Fran sighed. "I used to sit and daydream and write stories in my head…" She looked happy and relaxed—a minor miracle, given the day we'd had.

"You write stories?" The bookseller in me perked up. "Publish anything?"

"No, oh, no… it's just… scribbling."

Hmm. Present tense. "Like what?"

She laughed. "Oh… mostly fairy stories, stuff like that. I mean, come on, growing up in the room that I did, that was kind of a given. And…" She looked embarrassed. "Some… really… _really_ bad _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ stories."

Ducky looked interested. "Oh, you wrote television scripts?"

"Not exactly," she hedged.

"Fanzines?" I asked.

"Um, yeah." She sounded taken aback.

"Way back when, I wrote stories in the _Star trek_ universe. Some of the worst crap ever written—and, god help us, they published a lot of it."

Ducky looked at me in surprise. "You never told me you're a published author."

"Fanzines generally aren't something you put on your resume, honey. Although some published authors got their start there…" I re-divided Fran's hair and laid in pieces of ribbon.

"What are—"

"I'll explain fanzines later, sweetie. I need to concentrate."

Fran didn't need to concentrate. She gave Ducky a short history of fan publication—starting from way before her time. Apparently her mother has quite the collection, having been both an author _and_ an illustrator and getting comp copies all over the place. She even gave him a rundown of science fiction fandom and conventions.

Ducky was fascinated. "I wonder if Timothy knows of this."

"I'm sure he does."

"Oh, you look darling!" Victoria cried. She reached out and tipped Fran's chin up. (Fortunately I hadn't started on the second braid.) "I shall tell Maxine what a lovely young lady you've become."

I'm betting we all had the same thought. _Um, Mother—Maxine's dead._ There were two answers for that: 1) at her age, she was probably going to be the first one to meet up with her on the other side of the veil and/or 2) hey, _I_ sometimes talk to the dead. Usually in the wee, small hours of the night, but who's to say they aren't listening? Maybe she does, too.

Fran had the best response. She took Victoria's hand, kissed it and held it to her cheek. "Thank you. And please tell her I miss her very much."

/ / / / /

Plans are meant to be changed. Right? Right.

Instead of our usual Sunday lunch with the collected family on the lawn at home, we ended up right down the street from the Navy Yard.

No, Gibbs' team hadn't turned up a hot crime or a cold body. (Truth be told, the top squad of NCIS was spending their weekend going through cold cases—according to Abby, anyway.) No, while conferring with Evelyn and Lily for our plans for the day, it was brought up that Fran had yet to see the store—though we did plan to stop there before dinner.

"I'm dying to see the place, myself," Suzy said in passing.

"_I_ haven't set foot in there, either," was the arch comment over the phone. I could picture the lift of Charlie's eyebrow (she does a _great_ Mr. Spock imitation).

"Well, why don't we make it a field trip day for everyone?" was my flippant response.

Which is how we ended up meeting up in the back parking lot of the store just before noon. Geoff was literally at the door, fixing a sticky hinge, when we filed in: Victoria (who bussed his cheek in passing), followed by Suzy, Ducky, Fran, Lily, Ev (who got _her_ cheek bussed in passing), Charlie and yours truly. "That's all?" he asked blandly.

"We left the dogs in Reston. But I can call for reinforcements," I retorted.

"Abby stopped by to kill some time. She—"

There was a squeal from the sciences section. "Ducky!"

"—is apparently no longer working on bookcases in the old storeroom," Geoff finished.

"We're bringing in lunch from D.J.'s Deli."

He grinned. "I _knew_ there was a reason I showed up for work."

"Yeah. Your cable bill is due."

"Ouch. True, but—ouch."

I had to laugh. I had four paid employees on the premises—and within minutes had even more that were _un_paid. Victoria started helping Geoff fix the hinge (she knew the difference between a Phillips and flathead screwdriver ("Plus or minus?") so she actually _was_ a help), Charlie wandered the store, randomly alphabetizing as she went, Ev started shelving the backlog of incoming trade like she had never left the place, Lily was busy straightening up the tchotchkes and Ducky was following Abby back to the storeroom. (He doesn't build boats in the basement, but he's handy with a hammer.)

"Can I help with something?" I started to protest, but Suzy cut me off. "I don't know the store well enough—yet—to be of any help, but I follow orders really well."

"Well, speaking of orders… I called a lunch order in to the deli while we were driving. It's right down the street, would you—"

"Go pick it up? Absolutely. Is there enough room in the station wagon?" she teased.

"I hope so. I love that thing, it makes me think of my years in the Scouts every time I look at it."

"Yep. Hauled Scouts of both genders, Bluebirds, Indian Guides, glee club, folk group—and one kid who insisted on playing tuba all four years of high school. My mechanic has a backlog of spare parts for ol' Bessie. Just in case."

"Well, this shouldn't be quite that bad. I've got sandwich platters, salads, and twelve-packs of soda and beer."

"And don't forget that _gorgeous_ trifle." Lily's surprise had been a raspberry chocolate trifle set in a huge cut glass punch bowl she'd found in the attic. The trifle recipe was one handed down to Victoria; I had all but drooled as I watched Ev carry it in. "I do like how that girl cooks: big."

"And even with the crowd we have, we'll be good. All of the boys are boring in their dessert preferences. Cake. Pie. Cookies. So there's a big cookie tray, too."

"They're turning down chocolate raspberry trifle… for cookies?" she asked in shocked accents.

I grinned. "More for the rest of us."

/ / /

The day was almost ruined by the appearance of a reporter from _The_ _Post_. Asking for yours truly.

"We have information that the shooting of Francesca Peterson and Lillian McAllister are somehow connected. Do you have any insight on this? You're part of the Mallard family, yes?"

I could feel everyone in the store stiffen and come to a point like tracking dogs. "I'm sorry?" I said coolly.

"Actually, we're looking for Dr. Mallard. He's not at the Navy Yard, nobody's home at the house—but we saw your van there last night, ran the plates—cute license plate, by the way—"

I was set to a slow boil. _You low-down, six-fathered, ratfink—_

"I am Fran Peterson. May I help you?" Fran was behind him, emerging from the GAMES AND PUZZLES area, a large book carefully balanced in the crook of her good arm.

_Go! Run!_ I wanted to scream. The reporter's eyes lit up like he'd won the lottery. "Miss Peterson, I'm Ted Dimarco from _The Post_. Could we go somewhere, talk—"

"Here is fine." She looked _way_ too calm.

He looked startled. "Oh. Um, okay, sure." He pulled out a small tape recorder. "Mind if I tape this?"

"Please."

Behind him, I gave her the big-eyed 'do you know what you're doing?' look. She just gave me a tiny smile in response.

"Okay. How do you know Alyce Carson?"

"I don't. We've never met."

He looked startled. "Well—why did she shoot you?"

"Do I look like a mind reader?" she said with a small laugh.

"Ah—well—what about her husband?"

"What about him?"

"You know him, right?" He looked hopeful; maybe he'd get something smarmy and salacious.

"I did his makeup for _Night at the Wax Museum._"

He waited a moment. "And?" he prompted.

"Well… he said I had a light touch."

"…and…?" He looked at her hopefully. She shrugged. "That was _it_?" He looked ready to cry.

"Mm-hmm." Her big doe eyes looked so sweet an innocent.

"She tracks you down halfway across the country—" (You flunk Geography, sport? California to DC is the whole country, lower 48, anyway.) "And you know _nuthin'_?"

"Sorry. You probably know more than I do." She smiled and turned away.

"Wait, wait—could you say something, _anything_ about the shooting—?"

She bit her lip and frowned prettily, thinking hard. After a long moment, she shrugged. "Um… no." She gave him an innocent look. "I guess that's what they call… no comment?" She smiled gently. "Sorry." She turned and walked away—but not before giving me a tiny wink.

He turned back to me. "Hey. I know even less than she does," I said cheerfully and went back to reading customer comment cards. Pix is going to be a-okay with the media.

"But—"

I shrugged. "Sorry. Wish I could help." (Liar, liar, pants on fire!)

"But—"

As if on cue, the phone rang. "Sorry." (Another lie.) "Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you."

There was a chuckle in my ear. Ducky. "Want me to rescue you? Send Abigail to distract him? Send Mother to frighten him?"

"Oh, absolutely!" I enthused. "That would be wonderful! As a matter of fact, _everything_ on your list!"

"That could give rise to some interesting ideas."

"You betcha!" I covered the receiver. "This will take a while," I whispered loudly. "Sorry. Maybe you should call Mr. Carson? Or his wife's attorney?" Bwahahaha. Alyce's legal eagles made OJ's "Dream Team" look like the DA who faced Perry Mason all those seasons—and we know how _his_ track record was. Their law clerks probably billed close to four figures an hour, let alone the attorneys. "Now. Give me that list. Line by line," I instructed Ducky.

"Let's see… I think we'll start with a nice, long massage. Head to toe. No—first we have to remove the impediments. Unbutton that blouse _very… slowly…_"

My eyes widened and I gave the reporter a 'that's all, you can leave _now!'_ look and turned away. "Please. Do continue," I managed. (Is it an obscene phone call if you're enjoying it?)

There was a low chuckle in my ear. "Ah, but will you get any work done?"

"I'll try."

"No… I shouldn't tease you so."

"But I like it when you tease me," I argued. The reporter had given up in frustration and left. "That way, anyway."

"Naughty girl." (I shivered a little when he said that.) "You need to get your thoughts composed. Suzy just arrived and the young gentlemen are unloading as we speak."

"Food. Appealing to their baser instinct."

"One of them, anyway."

I blushed to my roots. "See if you can save a sliver of something for me."

He made a purring noise of assent. "Only a sliver?" I managed a weak "uh-huh" in response. God, I was at the point where he could say "water faucet" and I'd turn it into something dirty. Or he would. What a great relationship, eh?

/ / /

Geoff and Alan and Randy were fools. The trifle Lily had created was indescribably delicious. There were plenty of jokes surrounding me about 'life is uncertain, eat dessert first;' but to be honest, nothing else looked appealing. I concentrated on soothing, creamy chocolate with raspberry crème, whipped cream and delicate ladyfingers and felt much better. (Face it. The day I walk away from chocolate, put me down. Don't bother with therapy or doctors, I'm past living. If my funeral procession goes past Charlotte's Chocolates, I'm getting out of the hearse and shopping.)

"I want this instead of birthday cake." I _think_ that's what Fran said. She sounded like Scarlett O'Hara talking with her mouth crammed full of food while on her honeymoon with Rhett. Not far off, she had at least a full cup of trifle stuffed in her mouth. Her manners were appalling, simply appalling. (I, on the other hand, just kept shoveling it in and didn't bother talking.)

"I'm sure Grandma will share the recipe," Lily said with a laugh.

Victoria gave her a bright smile. "I would _love_ to have this recipe. If reminds me of my grandmother's best trifle!"

"I'll email it to you," Lily whispered.

/ / /

Ev volunteered to stay at the store while we took Fran to dinner and the train depot. She and Lily (and Charlie, of course) were spending the next couple of days at the house to make up for the past week; she would have driven back to Reston with the others, but the work schedule set a month ago was unraveling. All three of the boys had finals the next day and I, remembering what cramming for exams was like, said, yes, leave early—which left Valerie alone in the store. Valerie was fine with staying alone, but Ev wasn't fine with Valerie staying alone. (Neither was I, to be honest. I'm not keen on being there after dark by my lonesome any more.)

Thankfully, Fran made it to the train without being hassled. If this had been one of Maxine's old film noir flicks, the station would have been crawling with reporters. Thank heavens for reality. She and Ducky and I had stopped at the Gypsy on the way; nobody was really hungry, but Fran got a chance to see their decorations and décor and to pick up a t-shirt (a must for any wardrobe).

We got her settled in her cabin (pretty roomy, actually), nailed a porter for a bunch of ice and turned the two small trash cans into ersatz coolers. "It'll last through tomorrow night, anyway," I said cheerily.

"You know, they _do_ have a dining car," Ducky observed.

"Not with food like the Gypsy makes."

In between farewell hugs and kisses, we got Fran settled in. Her laptop was set up on the dresser, her phone charger plugged in next to it—

"It didn't charge! Dang!" Fran shook her phone in vexation. "I _knew_ I should have replaced the battery. I promised Dad I'd call him—"

I patted her back. "I'll call," I promised. "I'll tell him what happened and to look for an email." I gave her a stern look. "We expect contact, too, young lady."

"I promise, I promise!"

Feeling very old-movie-ish. Ducky and I waited until the train pulled out of the station before heading back to the relative quiet of DC traffic.

Still in the parking lot, I called Fran's dad. "Alan? Hi, it's Sandy Talmadge. Just wanted to let you know Fran left on time. She'll be sending you an email—apparently her cell phone is dead. She won't starve on the trip, we left her with tons of food—"

He laughed. "That's my girl. I don't know where she puts it."

"You've got me." Evelyn is the same way. They both eat like they're trying to start a famine and both are skinny wenches. And nice. At least if they were bitches, I could hate them.

"I really appreciate everything you've done." He sighed. "Pix emailed me about your surprise visitor last night. I guess he's trying to be a decent guy. Or something like it."

"She's trying to make the best of a bad situation. Trying hard."

"She has a good heart."

I smiled. "She sure does."

We toodled back to the store, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts. It wasn't until we got out of the van that Ducky asked, "What time will you be home?"

I winced. "Um… Wednesday?"

He looked aghast. "Why that long?"

"Well… I have a real estate agent coming over that afternoon—"

Now he was _really_ stunned. "You're—selling your house?"

"Not a chance. I partied too hard when I paid off the mortgage. But I can get eighteen hundred, two thou a month, easy. Near two schools, good neighborhood—and they'll take care of all the property management stuff for me. I just want to get the carpets cleaned, do the spring cleaning I _didn't_ do this spring, get it all spiffed up before I get graded."

"Ah." He slipped his arms around my waist. "Need a hand?"

"I'll never concentrate if you're there. Too many other things to do."

"Such as…?" He leaned close and whispered in my ear.

Despite turning bright pink (probably cherry red), I grinned. "Hold that list til Wednesday night, will you?"

He gave me a sly smile. "I'll keep adding to it."

He popped inside long enough to say hello and goodbye to Evelyn and Valerie; everyone else had headed back to the house already. Ev volunteered to stay through closing, giving Valerie a chance to go home early on a Sunday for once. Much as she had helped me sort through books the night she spilled the beans about Fran, she helped me sort and shelve the tons of trade Tim Walinski had brought in.

I smiled at the normalcy. Normal. Back to normal. Never thought I'd hear that word, not for a while, not after the past month. Month and a half, really—things started going crazy when we got back from Book Expo and discovered Abby had canned the day nurse.

Day nurse…

Speaking of which…

I clicked through the call history on my cell and found what was undoubtedly John Mulder's number. After several rings, I heard, "Your call is being answered by Audix." A scrabbling noise, then Mulder's voice: "John Mulder." Back to the automaton. "—is not available." I listened to the rest of the spiel. "Hey, John, this is Cassandra Talmadge. Just touching base. Give me a call, let me know what—if anything—you've found out? Thanks." I rattled off my phone numbers and hung up.

Evelyn stood at the end of the gardening section, hand on hip. "You steppin' out on Ducky?" She narrowed her eyes and I barely managed not to laugh.

"Not bloody likely. I was calling John Mulder, Lily's friend. He's looking into Neoma Keithley for me."

"Hope she turns out to be a spy," she muttered.

"Been talking to Mother? She sees spies everywhere." I was only a little surprised by her aversion. She had never mentioned Nurse Keithley in negative tones, but the fact that Charlie didn't get along well with her was probably why she was disliked.

"She just set my teeth on edge. She was too interested in the family money."

"That's what Charlie said."

Ev looked at me, seriously this time. "She was worried Grandma would get bumped off for her money. She's been reading a lot of Agatha Christie of late," she explained.

"Ah."

"I put the leftovers in the fridge. You want I make sammitch you?" she said in dreadful pidgin English.

"No thanks, I'm good."

She gave me a mother hen look. "What did you have for dinner?"

I knew better than to lie. "I wasn't really hungry—"

"All you ate was trifle. And, given your norm, you didn't eat much of that." She narrowed her eyes. "You okay? You look like crap."

"Well, thank you for that kindness," I retorted.

"Seriously. You still messing with that pulled muscle? Maybe it's something worse—"

"It's not something worse and, yes, I have an appointment this week. Jesus, you're as bad as Ducky."

She folded her arms and stared at me as I closed out the register. When I looked up, she had a sneaky smile on her mug.

"What?"

Her smile grew.

"What?"

She closed the distance to the desk and leaned over. "I'll bet you're preggers."

My jaw dropped. Of all the things out there, that had never popped to mind. "Don't be ridiculous."

She was absolutely gleeful. "You are! You are! I know you are!"

"Thanks, heaps."

"Come on! You told me you're tired all the time, you yak up your socks—"

"You have such a delightful way of describing things."

She grinned and danced around like a maniac. "Grandma will be so happy!"

"Shut up."

"I can't wait to throw you a baby shower!"

"Shut _up._"

"And maternity clothes!"

"Shut up!" I yelled. I lobbed a stress ball (how apropos) at her. And missed.

"Aww, you need to work on that arm, how will you teach junior to pitch?" She could barely get her words out around her giggles.

"You want a funeral? Or a wake?" I growled. This was reaching the 'it's not funny any more' stage.

Evelyn was absolutely gleeful. "That's what you get for dating a guy," she chortled.

"I mean it—"

"I think it's sweet! You'll be a wonderful mother—"

"Knock it off or I'll send you home in pieces. I'm warning you—!"

She sailed out the back door, her giggles floating back like wafting perfume.

I propped my head on my hand. What an end to the day. Now my head hurt, I felt nauseated and there was a vague ache in my gut. I'm not a hypochondriac, but at the rate I was going, she was working me into a nice psychosomatic pregnancy. She'd probably stop and buy baby shower invites on the way home. Oy vey.

The phone on the counter jangled and I gave it a mild glare. I sighed over the second ring and managed to pick it up on the third. "Papyrus."

"Oh, my darling… you sound as tired as I feel."

"In that case… god, do I feel sorry for you. Evvie just left—before I could murderize her."

"Dare I ask?"

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. "She's worse than Mother. She's taken all the stress symptoms I have and turned it into a surprise pregnancy."

"She reads those medical references on the web too much. She'd turn a headache into a brain tumor." Good. He was laughing over the concept. "Lily just remembered that Valerie took a message for you and wanted to make sure you got it."

I poked around in the loosed papers and found a pink "while you were out" message. "Chanda?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"I'll call her now. I won't be in until one tomorrow and Tuesday—if that."

"You have that much to do at the house?"

"According to my mother's standards—yes."

"Just make sure to keep next Saturday open."

"What's up?"

"A surprise," he said mysteriously.

"Another stage musical?"

"'Surprise' means 'I'm not going to tell you.'"

"Am I cooking dinner or are you?"

"The chef at the restaurant is cooking dinner."

"Dinner and a show," I joked. "And formal?"

"Well… not formal, but—"

"Not my usually slobbish attire?"

"I wouldn't go that far…"

I looked down at what I was wearing: blue jeans with embroidered patches (some were replicas of vintage patches, some were the real deal that I'd removed from my old dungarees when they no longer fit) and a t-shirt listing the top 100 banned books from 2000. "I would."

"You're biased."

"So're you. You spending the night at my place? Where are we going? I mean in terms of geography, is it better to go home to your house or mine?"

"Geographically speaking… yours. And I have missed the waterbed," he admitted. "It's so nice and cool in this weather…"

"Say no more. Maybe we should put the waterbed in the spare room?"

"Now, that is an excellent idea." (He said that only because he's probably never moved a waterbed.) We made romantic smooshy noises at each other and hung up. My mood was appreciably better as I dialed the phone.

A deep voice answered the phone. "Davis residence."

"Hi, is Chanda available? Sandy Talmadge calling."

"Sure, hang on."

It was a quick call. Chanda wanted me to come out and evaluate—and hopefully buy—boxes of books from her grandmother's house. I penciled her in for Wednesday and locked up the store.

I hit the market, getting something from almost every aisle, made it home in record time and put away all the perishables and then did the unthinkable: cleaned house. Not just fast pass with the vacuum and do the dishes. I mean cleaned. I figured it wouldn't hurt to get an early start; I did a ton of laundry, scrubbed out both bathrooms, I even _cleaned the frigging refrigerator_. (I don't know if the real estate agent was going to look in the fridge—but it needed to be done anyway.) I was on a roll.

I was also exhausted. By the time I hit bed (and those wonderful, soft, clean sheets) I was ready for unconsciousness and unconsciousness was ready for me. I know I slept, but all I remember was waking up. I stumbled to the bathroom (it smelled wonderfully of lemon-orange-grapefruit CtiriClean), took care of the necessary obligations and made my way to the kitchen. It was kind of nice not having to fight Foot for my breakfast; I decided to go whole hog (oops) and threw some bacon in the microwave while I scrambled some eggs. Raisin bagel in the toaster, juice over ice and I was good to go. I dished everything up and checked the clock. Hmm. Just about time. May as well get it over with.

Out of habit I put my plate on top of the microwave and strolled back to the bathroom. Inside the door, I reached out and grabbed the little stick that would prove to everyone that no, I am _not_ pregnant, so shut the hell up.

I stared at the stick for a long moment, puzzled. (This was the first time I've ever looked at one.) It was as bad as when we did the pH test strips in science class. I had opted for the more expensive test, the newest, hottest box on the market, the complicated one that would tell you if you were even a tiny bit pregnant. No pink dots or blue bars here. So, of course, I was lost. I finally dug out the paper that came with the test. _Color range will be from yellow to dark blue. Yellow will indicate a lack of hGC in the system (negative); blue will indicate the presence of hGC (positive). The darker the shade of blue, the greater the amount of hGC. If your test shows a shade of green or you are uncertain…_

Could they make this any harder? Jeez. I flipped back to the stick in my hand. Immediately it became difficult to see, my hand was shaking so hard.

Navy blue.

_Oh, my god._

I'm pregnant.

* * *

11


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